UNIT.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGF.I.K3 


"  For  a  moment  I  held   both  fingers  and   flowers" 

In    tkf    M 


MORNING 


FROM 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR 


BY 

IK.  MARVEL 

(DONALD  G.  MITCHELL) 


R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANY 

18  EAST  SEVENTEENTH  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,   1907 
BY  R.  F.  FENNO  &  COMPANY 


MORNING 

WHICH  IS  THE  PAST 


SCHOOL  DAYS 
THE  SEA 
FATHER-LAND 
A  ROMAN  GIRL 
THE  APPENINES 
ENRICA 


2131606 


mi 


Morning. 


IT  is  a  spring  day  under  the  oaks — the  loved 
oaks  of  a  once  cherished  home — now,  alas,  mine 
no  longer ! 

I  had  sold  the  old  farmhouse,  and  the  groves, 
and  the  cool  springs,  where  I  had  bathed  my 
head  in  the  heats  of  summer ;  and  with  the  first 
warm  days  of  May,  they  were  to  pass  from  me 
forever.  Seventy  years  they  had  been  in  the 
possession  of  my  mother's  family  ;  for  seventy 
years,  they  had  borne  the  same  name  of  pro- 
prietorship ;  for  seventy  years,  the  Lares  of 
our  country  home,  often  neglected,  almost  for- 
gotten— yet  brightened  from  time  to  time,  by 
gleams  of  heart-worship,  had  held  their  place 
in  the  sweet  valley  of  Elmgrove. 

And  in  this  changeful,  bustling,  American 
life  of  ours  seventy  years  is  no  child's  holiday. 
The  hurry  of  action,  and  progress,  may  pass 
over  it  with  quick  step ;  but  the  foot-prints  are 
many  and  deep.  You  surely  will  not  wonder 
that  it  made  me  sad  and  thoughtful,  to  break 
3 


the  chain  of  years,  that  bound  to  my  heart,  the 
oaks,  the  hills,  the  springs,  the  valley — and 
such  a  valley  ! 

A  wild  stream  runs  through  it — large  enough 
to  make  a  river  for  English  landscape — wind- 
ing between  rich  banks,  where  in  summer  time, 
the  swallows  build  their  nests,  and  brood  by 
myriads. 

Tall  elms  rise  here  and  there  along  the 
margin,  and  with  their  uplifted  arms,  and 
leafy  spray,  throw  great  patches  of  shade  upon 
the  meadow.  Old  lion-like  oaks,  too,  where 
the  meadow-soil  hardens  into  rolling  upland, 
•fasten  to  the  ground  with  their  ridgy  roots : 
and  with  their  gray,  scraggy  limbs,  make  de- 
licious shelter  for  the  panting  workers,  or  for 
the  herds  of  August. 

Westward  of  the  stream,  where  I  am  lying, 
the  banks  roll  up  swiftly  into  sloping  hills, 
covered  with  groves  of  oaks,  and  green  pasture 
lands,  dotted  with  mossy  rocks.  And  farther 
on,  where  some  wood  has  been  swept  down, 
some  ten  years  gone,  by  the  ax,  the  new  growth, 
heavy  with  the  luxuriant  foliage  of  spring, 
covers  wide  spots  of  the  slanting  land  ;  while 
dead  tree  in  the  midst,  still  stretches  out 
4 


flDornina 


its  bare  arms  to  the  blast — a  solitary  mourner 
over  the  wreck  of  its  forest  brothers. 

Eastward,  the  ridgy  bank  passes  into  wavy 
meadows,  upon  whose  farther  edge,  you  see 
the  roofs  of  an  old  mansion,  with  tall  chimneys 
and  taller  elm-trees  shading  it.  Beyond,  the 
hills  rise  gently,  and  sweep  away  into  wood- 
crowned  heights,  that  are  blue  with  distance. 
At  the  upper  end  of  the  valley,  the  stream  is 
lost  to  the  eye,  in  a  wide  swamp-wood,  which 
in  the  autumn  time  is  covered  with  a  scarlet 
sheet,  blotched  here  and  there  by  the  dark 
crimson  stains  of  the  ash-tops.  Farther  on, 
the  hills  crowd  close  to  the  brook,  and  come 
down  with  granite  boulders,  and  scattered 
birch-trees,  and  beeches — under  which,  upon 
the  smoky  mornings  of  May,  I  have  time  and 
again  loitered,  and  thrown  my  line  into  the 
pools,  which  curl  dark  and  still  under  their 
tangled  roots. 

Below,  and  looking  southward,  through  the 
openings  of  the  oaks  that  shade  me,  I  see  a 
broad  stretch  of  meadow,  with  glimpses  of  the 
silver  surface  of  the  stream,  and  of  the  giant 
solitary  elms,  and  of  some  old  maple  that  has 
yielded  to  the  spring  tides,  and  now  dips  its 
5 


lower  boughs  in  the  insidious  current — and  of 
clumps  of  alders,  and  willow  tufts — above 
which,  even  now,  the  black-and-white  coated 
Bob-o'-Lincoln,  is  wheeling  his  musical  flight, 
while  his  quieter  mate  sits  swaying  on  the  top- 
most twigs. 

A  quiet  road  passes  within  a  short  distance 
of  me,  and  crosses  the  brook  by  a  rude  timber 
bridge  ;  beside  the  bridge  is  a  broad  glassy 
pool,  shaded  by  old  maples,  and  hickories, 
where  the  cattle  drink  each  morning  on  their 
way  to  the  hill  pastures.  A  step  or  two  be- 
yond the  stream,  a  lane  branches  across  the 
meadows,  to  the  mansion  with  the  tall 
chimneys.  I  can  just  remember  now,  the 
stout,  broad-shouldered  old  gentleman,  with 
his  white  hat,  his  long  white  hair,  and  his 
white-headed  cane,  who  built  the  house,  and 
who  farmed  the  whole  valley  around  me.  He 
is  gone,  long  since ;  and  lies  in  a  graveyard 
looking  upon  the  sea !  The  elms  that  he 
planted  shake  their  weird  arms  over  the 
moldering  roofs  ;  and  his  fruit  garden  shows 
only  a  battered  phalanx  of  mossy  limbs,  which 
will  scarce  tempt  the  July  marauders. 

In  the  other  direction,  upon  this  side  the 
6 


flDorning 


brook,  the  road  is  lost  to  view,  among  the 
trees  ;  but  if  I  were  to  follow  the  windings 
upon  the  hillside,  it  would  bring  me  shortly 
upon  the  old  home  of  my  grandfather ;  there 
is  no  pleasure  in  wandering  there  now.  The 
woods  that  sheltered  it  from  the  northern 
winds,  are  cut  down ;  the  tall  cherries  that 
made  the  yard  one  leafy  bower,  are  dead. 
The  cornice  is  straggling  from  the  eaves ;  the 
porch  has  fallen  ;  the  stone  chimney  is  yawn- 
ing with  wide  gaps.  Within,  it  is  even  worse ; 
the  floors  sway  upon  the  moldering  beams ; 
the  doors  all  sag  from  their  hinges  ;  the  rude 
frescos  upon  the  parlor  wall  are  peeling  off; 
all  is  going  to  decay And  my  grand- 
father sleeps  in  a  little  graveyard,  by  the 
garden  wall. 

A  lane  branches  from  the  country  road, 
within  a  few  yards  of  me,  and  leads  back, 
along  the  edge  of  the  meadow,  to  the  homely 
cottage,  which  has  been  my  special  care.  Its 
gray  porch,  and  chimney  are  thrown  into  rich 
relief,  by  a  grove  of  oaks  that  skirts  the  hill 
behind  it;  and  the  doves  are  flying  uneasily 
about  the  open  doors  of  the  granary  and 
barns.  The  morning  sun  shines  pleasantly  on. 
7 


the  gray  group  of  buildings ;  and  the  lowing 
of  the  cows,  not  yet  driven  afield,  adds  to  the 
charming  homeliness  of  the  scene.  But  alas, 
for  the  poor  azalias,  and  laurels,  and  vines, 
that  I  had  put  out  upon  the  little  knoll  before 
the  cottage  door — they  are  all  of  them  trodden 
down :  only  one  poor  creeper  hangs  its  loose 
tresses  to  the  lattice,  all  disheveled,  and  for- 
lorn ! 

This  by-lane  which  opens  upon  my  farm- 
house, leaves  the  road  in  the  middle  of  a 
grove  of  oaks ;  the  brown  gate  swings  upon 
an  oak  tree — the  brown  gate  closes  upon  an 
oak  tree.  There  is  a  rustic  seat,  built  between 
two  veteran  trees,  that  rise  from  a  little  hillock 
near  by.  Half  a  century  ago,  there  was  a 
rustic  seat  on  the  same  hillock — between  the 
same  veteran  trees.  I  can  trace  marks  of  the 
the  bark,  and  the  scars  of 
„,  f,  .  scathed  trunks.  Time,  and 
time  again,  it  has  been  renewed.  This,  the 
last,  was  built  by  my  own  hands — a  cheerful, 
and  a  holy  duty. 

Sixty  years  ago,  they  tell  me,  my  grand- 
father used  to  loiter  here  with  his  gun,  while 
his  hounds  lay  around  under  the  scattered 
8 


old  blotches  upon 
the  nails,  upon  the 


oaks.  Now  he  sleeps,  as  I  said,  in  the  little 
graveyard  yonder,  where  I  can  see  one  or  two 
white  tablets  glimmering  through  the  foliage. 
I  never  knew  him  ;  he  died,  as  the  brown 
stone  table  says,  aged  twenty-six.  Yesterday 
I  climbed  the  wall  that  skirts  the  yard,  and 
plucked  a  flower  from  his  tomb.  I  take  out 
now  from  my  pocketbook,  that  flower — a 
frail,  first-blooming  violet — and  \vrite  upon  the 
slip  of  paper,  into  which  I  have  thrust  its 
delicate  stem — "  From  my  grandfather's  tomb 
—1850." 

But  other  feet  have  trod  upon  this  knoll — 
far  more  dear  to  me.  The  old  neighbors  have 
sometimes  told  me,  how  they  have  seen  forty 
years  ago,  two  rosy-faced  girls,  idling  on  this 
spot,  under  the  shade,  and  gathering  acorns, 
and  making  oak-leaved  garlands,  for  their 

foreheads Alas,  alas,  the  garlands  they 

wear  now,  are  not  earthly  garlands  ! 

Upon  that  spot,  and  upon  that  rustic  seat,  I 
am  lying  this  May  morning.  I  have  placed 
my  gun  against  a  tree  ;  my  shot  pouch  I  have 
hung  upon  a  broken  limb.  I  have  thrown  my 
feet  upon  the  bench,  and  lean  against  one  of 
the  gnarled  oaks,  between  which  the  seat  is 


fIDorntng 


built.  My  hat  is  off  ;  my  book  and  paper,  are 
beside  me ;  and  my  pencil  trembles  in  my 
fingers,  as  I  catch  sight  of  those  white  marble 
tablets,  gleaming  through  the  trees,  from  the 
height  above  me,  like  beckoning  angel  faces. 
If  they  were  alive !  two  more  near,  and  dear 
friends,  in  a  world  where  we  count  friends  by 
units ! 

It  is  morning — a  bright  spring  morning 
under  the  oaks — these  loved  oaks  of  a  once 
cherished  home.  Last  night,  I  slept  in  yonder 
mansion,  under  the  elms.  The  cattle  going  to 
the  pasture  are  drinking  in  the  pool  by  the 
bridge  ;  the  boy  who  drives  them,  is  making 
his  shrill  halloo  echo  against  the  hills.  The 
sun  has  risen  fairly  over  the  eastern  heights, 
and  shines  brightly  upon  the  meadow  land  and 
brightly  upon  a  bend  of  the  brook  below  me. 
The  birds — the  bluebirds  sweetest  and  noisiest 
of  all — are  singing  over  me  in  the  branches. 

<J  Cj 

A  woodpecker  is  hammering  at  a  dry  limb 
aloft ;  and  Carlo  pricks  up  his  ears,  and  looks 
at  me — then  stretches  out  his  head  upon  his 
paws,  in  a  warm  bit  of  the  sunshine — and 
sleeps. 

Morning  brings  back  to  me  the  past ;  and 
10 


flfcorning 


the  past  brings  up  not  only  its  actualities,  not 
only  its  events,  and  memories,  but — stranger 
still — what  might  have  been.  Every  little  cir- 
cumstance which  dawns  on  the  awakened  mem- 
ory, is  traced  not  only  to  its  actual,  but  to  its 
possible  issues. 

"What  a  wide  world  that  makes  of  the  past ! 
a  great  and  gorgeous — a  rich  and  holy  world  ! 
Your  fancy  fills  it  up  artist-like  ;  the  darkness 
is  mellowed  off  into  soft  shades ;  the  bright 
spots  are  veiled  in  the  sweet  atmosphere  of 
distance ;  and  fancy  and  memory  together, 
make  up  a  rich  dream-land  of  the  past. 

And  now,  as  I  go  on  to  trace  upon  paper 
some  of  the  visions  that  float  across  that 

• 

dreamland  of  the  morning — I  will  not — I  can- 
not say,  how  much  comes  fancy  wise,  and  how 
much  from  this  vaulting  memory.  Of  this, 
the  kind  reader  shall  himself  be  judge. 


11 


THE  MORNING 

ISABEL  and  I — she  is  my  cousin,  and  is  seven 
years  old,  and  I  am  ten — are  sitting  together 
on  the  bank  of  the  stream,  under  an  oak  tree 
that  leans  half  way  over  to  the  water.     I  am 
much  stronger  than  she,  and  taller  by  a  head. 
i  I  hold  in  my  hands  a  little  alder  rod,  with 
J  which  I  am  fishing  for  the  roach  and  minnows, 
that  play  in  the  pool  below  us. 

She  is  watching   the   cork   tossing  on  the 
water,  or  playing  with  the  captured  fish  that 
lie  upon  the  bank.     She  has  auburn  ringlets 
<-  that  fall  down  upon  her  shoulders ;  and  her 
,,  f  ^i\  straw  hat  lies  back  upon  them,  held  only  by 
.Jthe  strip  of  ribbon,  that  passes  under  her  chin. 
But  the  sun  does  not  shine  upon  her  head ;  for 
the  oak  tree  above  us  is  full  of  leaves ;  and 
only  here  and  there,  a  dimple  of  the  sunlight 
plays  upon  the  pool,  where  I  am  fishing. 

Her  eye  is  hazel,  and  bright ;  and  now  and 
then  she  turns  it  on  me  with  a  look  of  girlish 


flDorning 


curiosity,  as  I  lift  up  my  rod — and  again  in 
playful  menace,  as  she  grasps  in  her  little 
fingers  one  of  the  dead  fish,  and  threatens  to 
throw  it  back  upon  the  stream.  Her  little  feet 
hang  over  the  edge  of  the  bank ;  and  from 
time  to  time,  she  reaches  down  to  dip  her  toe 
in  the  water ;  and  laughs  a  girlish  laugh  of 
defiance,  as  I  scold  her  for  frightening  away 
the  fishes. 

"  Bella,"  I  say,  "  what  if  you  should  tumble 
in  the  river  ?  " 
"  But  I  won't." 
"  Yes,  but  if  you  should  ?  " 
"  "Why  then  you  would  pull  me  out." 
"  But  if  I  wouldn't  pull  you  out  ?  " 
"  But   I  know  you  would ;   wouldn't 
Paul  ?  " 

"What  makes  you  think  so,  Bella  ?  " 
"  Because  you  love  Bella." 
"  How  do  you  know  I  love  Bella  ?  " 
"  Because  once  you  told  me  so ;  and  because 
you  pick  flowers  for  me  that  I  cannot  reach  ; 
and  because  you  let  me  take  your  rod,  when 
you  have  a  fish  upon  it." 

"  But  that's  no  reason,  Bella." 
"  Then  what  is,  Paul  ?  " 
13 


you 


flDorning 


"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  Bella." 

A  little  fish  has  been  nibbling  for  a  long 
time  at  the  bait ;  the  cork  has  been  bobbing 
up  and  down — and  now  he  is  fairly  hooked, 
and  pulls  away  towards  the  bank,  and  you 
cannot  see  the  cork. 

— "  Here,  Bella,  quick  !  " — and  she  springs 
eagerly  to  clasp  her  little  hands  around  the 
rod.  But  the  fish  has  dragged  it  away  on  the 
other  side  of  me  ;  and  as  she  reaches  farther, 
and  farther,  she  slips,  cries — "  Oh,  Paul !  "  and 
falls  into  the  water. 

The  stream  they  told  us,  when  we  came,  was 
over  a  man's  head — it  is  surely  over  little  Isa- 
bel's. I  fling  down  the  rod,  and  thrusting  one 
band  into  the  roots  that  support  the  overhang- 
ing bank,  I  grasp  at  her  hat,  as  she  comes  up  ; 
but  the  ribbons  give  way,  and  I  see  the  ter- 
ribly earnest  look  upon  her  face  as  she  goes 
down  again.  Oh,  my  mother — thought  I — if 
you  were  only  here  ! 

But  she  rises  again ;  this  time,  I  thrust  my 
band  into  her  dress,  and  struggling  hard,  keep 
her  at  the  top,  until  I  can  place  my  foot  down 
upon  a  projecting  root ;  and  so  bracing  myself, 
I  drag  her  to  the  bank,  and  having  climbed  up, 
14 


"But  boyhood  has  its  loves." 


Thi   Marnlng 


—Page  75- 


flDorning 


take  hold  of  her  belt  firmly  with  both  hands, 
and  drag  her  out ;  and  poor  Isabel,  choked, 
chilled,  and  wet,  is  lying  upon  the  grass. 

I  commence  crying  aloud.  The  workmen  in 
the  fields  hear  me,  and  come  down.  One  takes 
Isabel  in  his  arms,  and  I  follow  on  foot  to  our 
uncle's  home  upon  the  hill. 

— "  Oh,  my  dear  children  !  "  says  my  mother  • 
and  she  takes  Isabel  in  her  arms ;  and  pres- 
ently with  dry  clothes,  and  blazing  wood-fire, 
little  Bella  smiles  again.  I  am  at  my  mother's 
knee. 

"  I  told  you  so,  Paul,"  says  Isabel — "  aunty, 
doesn't  Paul  love  me  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so,  Bella,"  said  my  mother. 

"I  know  so,"  said  I;  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

And  how  did  I  know  it  ?  The  boy  does  not 
ask ;  the  man  does.  Oh,  the  freshness,  the 
honesty,  the  vigor  of  a  boy's  heart !  how  the 
memory  of  it  refreshes  like  the  first  gush  of 
spring,  or  the  break  of  an  April  shower ! 

But  boyhood  has  its  PRIDE,  as  well  as  its 
LOVES. 

My  uncle  is  a  tall,  hard-faced  man ;  I  fear 
him  when  he  calls  me — "child";  I  love  him 
when  he  calls  me — "Paul."  He  is  almost 
15 


always  busy  with  his  books ;  and  when.  I  steal 
into  the  library  door,  as  I  sometimes  do,  with 
a  string  of  fish,  or  a  heaping  basket  of  nuts  to 
show  to  him — he  looks  for  a  moment  curiously 
at  them,  sometimes  takes  them  in  his  fingers 
— gives  them  back  to  me,  and  turns  over  the 
leaves  of  his  book.  You  are  afraid  to  ask  him, 
if  you  have  not  worked  bravely  ;  yet  you  want 
to  do  so. 

You  sidle  out  softly,  and  go  to  your  mother ; 
she  scarce  looks  at  your  little  stores ;  but  she 
draws  you  to  her  with  her  arm,  and  prints  a 
kiss  upon  your  forehead.  Now  your  tongue  is 
unloosed ;  that  kiss  and  that  action  have  done 
it ;  you  will  tell  what  capital  luck  you  have 
had  ;  and  you  hold  up  your  tempting  trophies ; 
"  are  they  not  great,  mother  ?  "  But  she  is 
looking  in  your  face,  and  not  at  your  prize. 

"Take  them,  mother,"  and  you  lay  the 
basket  upon  her  lap. 

"  Thank  you,  Paul,  I  do  not  wish  them  :  but 
you  must  give  some  to  Bella." 

And  away  you  go  to  find  laughing,  playful, 
cousin  Isabel.  And  we  sit  down  together  on 
the  grass,  and  I  pour  out  my  stores  between 
us.  "  You  shall  take,  Bella,  what  you  wish  in 
16 


flDorning 


your  apron,  and  then  when  study  hours  are 
over,  we  will  have  such  a  time  down  by  the 
big  rock  in  the  meadow  !  " 

"  But  I  do  not  know  if  papa  will  let  me," 
says  Isabel. 

"  Bella,"  I  say,  "  do  you  love  your  papa  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  says  Bella,  "  why  not  ?  " 

"  Because  he  is  so  cold  ;  he  does  not  kiss  you, 
Bella,  so  of  ten  as  my  mother  does ;  and  besides, 
when  he  forbids  your  going  away,  he  does  not 
say,  as  mother  does — my  little  girl  will  be 
tired,  she  had  better  not  go — but  he  says  only 
—Isabel  must  not  go.  I  wonder  what  makes 
him  talk  so?" 

"  Why,  Paul,  he  is  a  man,  and  doesn't — at 
any  rate,  I  love  him,  Paul.  Besides,  my 
mother  is  sick,  you  know." 

"  But  Isabel,  my  mother  will  be  your  mother, 


^//r"  rv 

<fl. 

•-'  )  /  ^ 
:•/    \v=    I  s  -   Jo 


young 

none  of  the  void  now  that  will  overtake  it  like 
an  opening  Korah  gulf,  in  the  years  that  are 
come.  It  is  joyous,  full,  and  running  over  1 


. 

/ 
-- 


"  You  may  go,"  she  says,  "  if  your  unole  is 
willing." 

"  But  mamma,  I  am  afraid  to  ask  him ;  I  do 
not  believe  he  loves  me." 

"  Don't  say  so,  Paul,"  and  she  draws  you  to 
her  side ;  as  if  she  would  supply  by  her  own 
love,  the  lacking  love  of  a  universe. 

"  Go,  with  your  cousin  Isabel,  and  ask  him 
kindly ;  and  if  he  says  no — make  no  reply." 

And  with  courage,  we  go  hand  in  hand,  and 
steal  in  at  the  library  door.  There  he  sits — I 
seem  to  see  him  now — in  the  old  wainscoted 
room,  covered  over  with  books  and  pictures ; 
and  he  wears  his  heavy-rimmed  spectacles,  and 
is  poring  over  some  big  volume,  full  of  hard 
words,  that  are  not  in  any  spelling-book.  "We 
step  up  softly  ;  and  Isabel  lays  her  little  hand 
upon  his  arm  ;  and  he  turns,  and  says — "  "Well, 
my  little  daughter  ?  " 

I  ask  if  we  may  go  down  to  the  big  rock 
in  the  meadow  ? 

He  looks  at  Isabel,  and  says  he  is  afraid — 
"  we  cannot  go." 

"But  why,  uncle  ?  It  is  only  a  little  way, 
and  we  will  be  very  careful." 

"  I  am  afraid,  my  children ;  do  not  say  any 
18 


flDorntng 


more :  you  can  have  the  pony,  and  Tray,  and 
play  at  home." 

"  But,  uncle " 

"  You  need  say  no  more,  my  child." 

I  pinch  the  hand  of  little  Isabel,  and  look  in 
her  eye — my  own  half  filling  with  tears.  I 
feel  that  my  forehead  is  flushed,  and  I  hide  it 
behind  Bella's  tresses — whispering  to  her  at 
the  same  time — "  Let  us  go." 

"  What,  sir,"  says  my  uncle,  mistaking 
my  meaning — "do  you  persuade  her  to  dis- 
obey ?  " 

Xow  I  am  angry,  and  say  blindly — "  No,  sir, 
I  didn't !  "  And  then  my  rising  pride  will  not 
let  me  say,  that  I  wished  only  Isabel  should 
go  out  with  me. 

Bella  cries ;  and  I  shrink  out ;  and  am  not 
easy  until  I  have  run  to  bury  my  head  in  my 
mother's  bosom.  Alas  !  pride  cannot  always 
find  such  covert !  There  will  be  times  when  it 
will  harass  you  strangely  ;  when  it  will  peril 
friendships — will  sever  old,  standing  intimacy ; 
and  then — no  resource  but  to  feed  on  its  own 
bitterness.  Hateful  pride ! — to  be  conquered, 
as  a  man  would  conquer  an  enemy,  or  it  will 
make  whirlpools  in  the  current  of  your  affec- 
19 


flDorntng 


tions — nay,  turn  the  whole  tide  of  the  heart 
into  rough,  and  unaccustomed  channels  ? 

But  boyhood  has  its  GKIEF,  too,  apart  from 
PRIDE. 

You  love  the  old  dog,  Tray ;  and  Bella  loves 
He  is  a  noble  old  fellow, 


him  as  well  as  you. 

.  With  shaggy  hair,  and  long  ears,  and  big  paws, 
tyf ///'that  he  will  put  up  into  your  hand,  if  you  ask 
him.  And  he  never  gets  angry  when  you  play 
with  him,  and  tumble  him  over  in  the  long 
grass,  and  pull  his  silken  ears.  Sometimes,  to 
be  sure,  he  will  open  his  mouth,  as  if  he  would 
bite,  but  when  he  gets  your  hand  fairly  in  his 
jaws,  he  will  scarce  leave  the  print  of  his  teeth 
upon  it.  He  will  swim,  too,  bravely,  and 
bring  ashore  all  the  sticks  you  throw  upon 
the  water ;  and  when  you  fling  a  stone  to 
tease  him,  he  swims  round  and  round,  and 
whines,  and  looks  sorry,  that  he  cannot  find 

He  will  carry  a  heaping  basket  full  of  nuts, 
oo,  in  his  mouth,  and  never  spill  one  of  them  ; 
nd  when  you  come  out  to  your  uncle's  home  in 
•  the  spring,  after  staying  a  whole  winter  in  the 
town,  he  knows  you — old  Tray  does  !     And  he 


leaps  upon  you,  and  lays  his  paws  on  your 

N 


Cbe  morning 

-.,>«•••*•" 


shoulder,  and  licks  your  face ;  and  is  almost  as 
glad  to  see  you,  as  cousin  Bella  herself.  And 
when  you  put  Bella  on  his  back  for  a  ride,  he 


only  pretends  to  bite  her  little  feet — but  he 
wouldn't  do  it  for  the  world.  Ay,  Tray  is  a 
noble  old  dog ! 

But  one  summer,  the  farmers  say  that  some 
of  their  sheep  are  killed,  and  that  the  dogs 
have  worried  them ;  and  one  of  them  comes  to 
talk  with  my  uncle  about  it. 

But  Tray  never  worried  sheep ;  you  know 
he  never  did  ;  and  so  does  nurse  ;  and  so  does 
Bella  ;  for  in  the  spring,  she  had  a  pet  lamb,  and 
Tray  never  worried  little  Fidele. 

And  one  or  two  of  the  dogs  that  belong  to 
the  neighbors  are  shot ;  though  nobody  knows 
who  shot  them ;  and  you  have  great  fears 
about  poor  Tray  ;  and  try  to  keep  him  at  home, 
and  fondle  him  more  than  ever.  But  Tray 
will  sometimes  wander  off;  till  finally,  one 
afternoon,  he  comes  back  whining  piteously, 
and  with  his  shoulder  all  bloody. 

Little  Bella  cries  loud  ;  and  you  almost  cry, 

as  nurse  dresses  the  wound  ;  and  poor  old  Tray 

whines   very  sadly.     You  pat  his  head,  and 

Bella  pats  him  ;  and  you  sit  down-together  by 

21 


him  on  the  floor  of  the  porch,  and  bring  a  rug 
for  him  to  lie  upon;  and  try  and  tempt  him 
with  a  little  milk,  and  Bella  brings  a  piece  of 
cake  for  him — but  he  will  eat  nothing.  You 
sit  up  till  very  late,  long  after  Bella  has  gone 
to  bed,  patting  his  head,  and  wishing  you 
could  do  something  for  poor  Tray;  but  he 
only  licks  our  hand,  and  whines  more  pite- 
ously  than  ever. 

In  the  morning,  you  dress  early,  and  hurry 
down-stairs ;  but  Tray  is  not  lying  on  the  rug ; 
and  you  run  through  the  house  to  find  him, 
and  whistle,  and  call — Tray — Tray  !  At 
^.length  you  see  him  lying  in  his  old  place,  out 
by  the  cherry  tree,  and  you  run  to  him  ;  but  he 
does  not  start ;  and  you  lean  down  to  pat  him — 
but  he  is  cold,  and  the  dew  is  wet  upon  him — 
poor  Tray  is  dead  ! 

You  take  his  head  upon  your  knees,  and  pat 
again  those  glossy  ears,  and  cry  ;  but  you  can- 
not bring  him  to  life.  And  Bella  comes,  and 
cries  with  you.  You  can  hardly  bear  to  have 
him  put  in  the  ground  ;  but  uncle  says  he  must 
be  buried.  So  one  of  the  workmen  digs  a 
grave  under  the  cherry  tree,  where  he  died — a 
deep  grave,  and  they  round  it  over  with  earth, 
22 


Gbe  flDorning 


and  smooth  the  sods  upon  it — even  now  I  can 
trace  Tray's  grave. 

You  and  Bella  together,  put  up  a  little  slab 
for  a  tombstone ;  and  she  hangs  flowers  upon 
it,  and  ties  them  there  with  a  bit  of  ribbon. 
You  can  scarce  play  all  that  day ;  and  after- 
wards, many  weeks  later,  when  you  are  ram- 
bling over  the  fields,  or  lingering  by  the  brook, 
throwing  off  sticks  into  the  eddies,  you  think 
of  old  Tray's  shaggy  coat,  and  of  his  big  paw, 
and  of  his  honest  eye ;  and  the  memory  of 
your  boyish  grief  comes  upon  you ;  and  you 
say  with  tears,  "  Poor  Tray  !"  And  Bella  too, 
in  her  sad  sweet  tones,  says — "Poor  old  Tray — 
he  is  dead  !  " 

SCHOOL  DAYS 

The  morning  was  cloudy  and  threatened 
rain  ;  besides,  it  was  autumn  weather,  and  the 
winds  were  getting  harsh,  and  rustling  among 
the  tree-tops  that  shaded  the  house,  most  dis- 
mally. I  did  not  dare  to  listen.  If  indeed, 
I  were  to  stay  by  the  bright  fires  of  home, 
and  gather  the  nuts  as  they  fell,  and  pile  up 
the  falling  leaves,  to  make  great  bonfires,  with 
Ben,  and  the  rest  of  the  boys,  I  should  have 
23 


flDornincj 


liked  to  listen,  and  would  have  braved  the  dis- 
mal morning  with  the  cheerfullest  of  them  all. 
For  it  would  have  been  a  capital  time  to  light 
a  fire  in  the  little  oven  we  had  built  under  the 
wall ;  it  would  have  been  so  pleasant  to  warm 
our  fingers  at  it,  and  to  roast  the  great  russets 
on  the  flat  stones  that  made  the  top. 

But  this  was  not  in  store  for  me.  I  had  bid 
the  town  boys  good-bye,  the  day  before;  my 
trunk  was  all  packed  ;  I  was  to  go  away — to 
school.  The  little  oven  would  go  to  ruin — I 
knew  it  would.  I  was  to  leave  my  home.  I 
was  to  bid  my  mother  good-bye,  and  Lilly,  and 
Isabel,  and  all  the  rest ;  and  was  to  go  away 
from  them  so  far,  that  I  should  only  know 
what  they  were  all  doing — in  letters.  It  was 
sad.  And  then  to  have  the  clouds  come  over 
on  that  morning,  and  the  winds  sigh  so  dis- 
mally ;  oh,  it  was  too  bad,  I  thought ! 

It  comes  back  to  me  as  I  lie  here  this  bright 
spring  morning,  as  if  it  were  only  yesterday. 
I  remember  that  the  pigeons  skulked  under  the 
eaves  of  the  carriage  house,  and  did  not  sit,  as 
they  used  to  do  in  summer,  upon  the  ridge  ; 
\,  and  the  chickens  huddled  together  about  the 
/.stable  doors,  as  if  they  were  afraid  of  the  cold 

n 


flfcorning 


autumn.  And  in  the  garden  the  white  holly- 
hock stood  shivering,  and  bowed  to  the  wind, 
as  if  their  time  had  come.  The  yellow  musk- 
melons  showed  plain  among  the  frost-bitten 
vines,  and  looked  cold,  and  uncomfortable. 

Then  they  were  all  so  kind,  indoors !    The 

cook  made  such  nice  things  for  my  breakfast, 
because  little  master  was  going;  Lilly  would 
give  me  her  seat  by  the  fire,  and  would  put  her 
lump  of  sugar  in  my  cup;  and  my  mother 
looked  so  smiling,  and  so  tenderly,  that  I 
thought  I  loved  her  more  than  I  ever  did  be- 
fore. Little  Ben  was  so  gay,  too ;  and  wanted 
me  to  take  his  jack-knife,  if  I  wished  it — 
though  he  knew  that  I  had  a  brand  new  one 
in  my  trunk.  The  old  nurse  slipped  a  little 
purse  into  my  hand,  tied  up  with  a  green  rib- 
bon— with  money  in  it — and  told  me  not  to 
show  it  to  Ben  or  Lilly. 

And  cousin  Isabel,  who  was  there  on  a  visit, 
would  come  to  stand  by  my  chair,  when  my 
mother  was  talking  to  me ;  and  put  her  hand 
in  mine,  and  look  up  into  my  face ;  but  she  did 
not  say  a  word.  I  thought  it  was  very  odd  ; 
and  yet  it  did  not  seem  odd  to  me,  that  I  could 
say  nothing  to  her.  I  dare  say  we  felt  alike. 
25 


At  length  Ben  came  running  in,  and  said  the 
coach  had  come  ;  and  there,  sure  enough,  out  of 
the  window,  we  saw  it — a  bright  yellow 
coach,  with  four  white  horses,  and  band-boxes 
all  over  the  top,  with  a  great  pile  of  trunks 
behind.  Ben  said  it  was  a  grand  coach,  and 
that  he  should  like  a  ride  in  it ;  and  the  old 
nurse  came  to  the  door,  and  said  I  should  have 
a  capital  time ;  but  somehow,  I  doubted  if  the 
nurse  was  talking  honestly.  I  believe  she 
gave  me  an  honest  kiss  though — and  such  a 
hug! 

But  it  was  nothing  to  my  mother's.  Tom 
told  me  to  be  a  man,  and  study  like  a  Trojan ; 
but  I  was  not  thinking  about  study  then. 
There  was  a  tall  boy  in  the  coach,  and  I  was 
ashamed  to  have  him  see  me  cry ;  so  I  didn't, 
at  first.  But  I  remember,  as  I  looked  back, 
and  saw  little  Isabel  run  out  into  the  middle 
of  the  street,  to  see  the  coach  go  off,  and  the 
curls  floating  behind  her,  as  the  wind  fresh- 
ened, I  felt  my  heart  leaping  into  my  throat, 
and  the  water  coming  into  my  eyes,  and  how 
just  then  I  caught  sight  of  the  tall  boy  glanc- 
ing at  me — and  how  I  tried  to  turn  it  off,  by 
looking  to  see  if  I  could  button  up  my  great- 
26 


fIDorntng 


coat,  a  great  deal  lower  down  than  the  button- 
holes went. 

But  it  was  of  no  use ;  I  put  my  head  out  of 
the  coach  window,  and  looked  back,  as  the 
little  figure  of  Isabel  faded,  and  then  the  house, 
and  the  trees ;  and  the  tears  did  come ;  and  I 
smuggled  my  handkerchief  outside  without 
turning ;  so  that  I  could  wipe  my  eyes,  before 
the  tall  boy  should  see  me.  They  say  that 
these  shadows  of  morning  fade,  as  th^j  sun 
brightens  into  noonday ;  but  they  are  very 
dark  shadows  for  all  that ! 

Let  the  father,  or  the  mother  think  lo»ig,  be- 
fore they  send  away  their  boy — before  they 
break  the  home-ties  that  make  a  web  of  infinite 
fineness  and  soft  silken  meshes  around  his 
heart,  and  toss  him  aloof  into  the  boy-world, 
where  he  must  struggle  up  amid  bickerings  and 
quarrels,  into  his  age  of  youth  !  There  are  boys 
indeed  with  little  fineness  in  the  texture  of  their 
hearts,  and  with  little  delicacy  of  soul;  to  whom 
the  school  in  a  distant  village,  is  but  a  vaca- 
tion from  home ;  and  with  whom,  a  return 
revives  all  those  grosser  affections  which  alone 
existed  before  ;  just  as  there  are  plants  which 
will  bear  all  exposure  without  the  wilting  of  a 
27 


! 


leaf,  and  will  return  to  the  hot-house  life,  as 
strong,  and  as  hopeful  as  ever.  But  there  are 
others,  to  whom  the  severance  from  the  prattle 
of  sisters,  the  indulgent  fondness  of  a  mother, 
and  the  unseen  influences  of  the  home  altar, 
gives  a  shock  that  lasts  forever  ;  it  is  wrench- 
ing with  cruel  hand,  what  will  bear  but  little 
roughness  ;  and  the  sobs  with  which  the  adieux 
are  said,  are  sobs  that  may  come  back  in  the 
after  years,  strong,  and  steady,  and  terrible. 

God  have  mercy  on  the  boy  who  learns  to 
sob  early  !  Condemn  it  as  sentiment,  if  you 
will  ;  talk  as  you  will  of  the  fearlessness,  and 
strength  of  the  boy's  heart  —  yet  there  belong 
to  many,  tenderly  strung  chords  of  affection 
which  give  forth  low,  and  gentle  music,  that 
consoles,  and  ripens  the  ear  for  all  the  harmo- 
nies of  life.  These  chords  a  little  rude  and 
unnatural  tension  will  break,  and  break  for- 
ever. Watch  your  boy  then,  if  so  be  he  will 
bear  the  strain  ;  try  his  nature,  if  it  be  rude  or 
delicate;  and  if  delicate,  in  God's  name,  do 
not,  as  you  value  your  peace  and  his,  breed  a 
harsh  youth  spirit  in  him,  that  shall  take  pride 
in  subjugating,  and  forgetting  the  delicacy,  and 
richness  of  his  finer  affections  ! 
28 


1  see  now,  looking  into  the  past,  the 

troops  of  boys  who  were  scattered  in  the  great 
playground,  as  the  coach  drove  up  at  night.f 
The  school  was  in  a  tall,  stately  building,  with 
a  high  cupola  on  the  top,  where  I  thought  I 
would  like  to  go  up.  The  schoolmaster,  they 
told  me  at  home,  was  kind  ;  he  said  he  hoped 
I  would  be  a  good  boy,  and  patted  me  on  the 
head ;  but  he  did  not  pat  me  as  my  mother 
used  to  do.  Then  there  was  a  woman,  whom 
they  called  the  matron;  who  had  a  great 
many  ribbons  in  her  cap,  and  who  shook  my 
hand — but  so  stiffly,  that  I  didn't  dare  to  look 
up  in  her  face. 

One  boy  took  me  down  to  see  the  school- 
room, which  was  in  the  basement,  and  the 
walls  were  all  moldy,  I  remember ;  and  when 
we  passed  a  certain  door,  he  said :  there  was 
the  dungeon ;  how  I  felt !  I  hated  that  boy  ; 
but  I  believe  he  is  dead  now.  Then  the 
matron  took  me  up  to  my  room — a  little 
corner  room,  with  two  beds,  and  two  windows, 
and  a  red  table,  and  closet ;  and  my  chum  was 
about  my  size,  and  wore  a  queer  roundabout 
jacket  with  big  bell  buttons ;  and  he  called  thfr 
schoolmaster — "  Old  Crikey  " — and  kept  me 
29 


•i^.T.F      i'^T-,      ' 

V-rl  ^^'OWA 

i:$fK£: 

~"^'-fV7. 
tST'f 


•. 

' 


;v*rHp17 





flDornfng 


awake  half  the  night,  telling  me  how  he 
whipped  the  scholars,  and  how  they  played 
tricks  upon  him.  I  thought  my  chum  was  a 
very  uncommon  boy. 

For  a  day  or  two,  the  lessons  were  easy, 
and  it  was  sport  to  play  with  so  many  "  fel- 
lows." But  soon  I  began  to  feel  lonely  at 
night  after  I  had  gone  to  bed.  I  used  to  wish 
I  could  have  my  mother  come,  and  kiss  me ; 
after  school  too.  I  wished  I  could  step  in,,  and 
tell  Isabel  how  bravely  I  had  got  my  lessons. 
"When  I  told  my  chum  this,  he  laughed  at  me, 
and  said  that  was  no  place  for  "  homesick, 
white-livered  chaps."  I  wondered  if  my  chum 
had  any  mother. 

"We  had  spending  money  once  a  week,  with 
which  we  used  to  go  down  to  the  village  store, 
and  club  our  funds  together,  to  make  great 
pitchers  of  lemonade.  Some  boys  would  have 
money  besides ;  though  it  was  against  the 
rules ;  and  one,  I  recollect,  showed  us  a  five 
dollar  bill  in  his  wallet — and  we  all  thought 
he  must  be  very  rich. 

"We  marched  in  procession  to  the  village 
church  on  Sundays.  There  were  two  long 
benches  in  the  galleries,  reaching  down  the 
30 


flDornino 


sides  of  the  meeting-house ;  and  on  these  we 
sat.  At  the  first,  I  was  among  the  smallest 
boys,  and  took  a  place  close  to  the  wall, 
against  the  pulpit ;  but  afterwards,  as  I  grew 
bigger,  I  was  promoted  to  the  lower  end  of 
the  first  bench.  This  I  never  liked  ;  because 
it  was  close  by  one  of  the  ushers,  and  because 
it  brought  me  next  to  some  country  women, 
who  wore  stiff  bonnets,  and  eat  fennel,  and 
sung  with  the  choir.  But  there  was  a  little 
black-eyed  girl,  who  sat  over  behind  the  choir, 
that  I  thought  handsome ;  I  used  to  look  at 
her  very  often ;  but  was  careful  she  should 
never  catch  my  eye. 

There  was  another  down  below,  in  a  corner 
pew,  who  was  pretty ;  and  who  wore  a  hat  in 
the  winter  trimmed  with  fur.  Half  the  boys 
in  the  school  said  they  would  marry  her  some 
day  or  other.  One's  name  was  Jane,  and  that 
of  the  other,  Sophia  ;  which  we  thought  pretty 
names,  and  cut  them  on  the  ice,  in  skating 
time.  But  I  didn't  think  either  of  them  so 
pretty  as  Isabel. 

Once  a  teacher  whipped  me :  I  bore  it 
bravely  in  the  school :  but  afterwards,  at  night, 
when  my  chum  was  asleep,  I  sobbed  bitterly 
31 


7? 


as  I  thought  of  Isabel,  and  Ben,  and  my 
mother,  and  how  much  they  loved  me:  and 
laying  my  face  in  my  hands,  I  sobbed  myself 
to  sleep.  In  the  morning  I  was  calm  enough  : 
it  was  another  of  the  heart  ties  broken,  though 
I  did  not  know  it  then.  It  lessened  the  old 
attachment  to  home,  because  that  home  could 
neither  protect  me,  nor  soothe  me  with  its 
sympathies.  Memory  indeed  freshened  and 
grew  strong ;  but  strong  in  bitterness,  and  in 
regrets.  The  bo}r  whose  love  you  cannot  feed 
by  daily  nourishment,  will  find  pride,  self- 
indulgence,  and  an  iron  purpose  coming  in  to 
furnish  other  supply  for  the  soul  that  is  in 
him.  If  he  cannot  shoot  his  branches  into  the 
sunshine,  he  will  become  acclimated  to  the 
shadow,  and  indifferent  to  such  stray  gleams 
of  sunshine,  as  his  fortune  may  vouchsafe. 

Hostilities  would  sometimes  threaten  be- 
tween the  school  and  the  village  boys  ;  but 
they  usually  passed  off,  with  such  loud,  and 
Charmless  explosions  as  belong  to  the  wars  of 
OUT  small  politicians.  The  village  champions 
were  a  hatter's  apprentice,  and  a  thickset 
fellow  who  worked  in  a  tannery.  We  prided 
ourselves  especially  on  one  stout  boy,  who 
32 


{Doming 


wore  a  sailor's  monkey  jacket.     I  cannot  but 
think  how  jaunty  that  stout  boy  looked  in  that 
jacket;  and  what  an  Ajax  cast  there  was  to 
his   countenance!     It   certainly  did   occur  to 
me,  to   compare   him  with  William  Wallace  ; 
(Miss  Porter's  William  Wallace)  and  I  thought 
how  I  would  have  liked  to  have  seen  a  tussel  ; 
between  them.     Of  course,  we  who  were  small-,';' 
boys,  limited  ourselves  to  indignant  remark, 
and  thought  li  we  should  like  to  see  them  do 
it " ;  and  prepared  clubs  from  the  wood-shed, : ' 
after  a  model  suggested  by  a  New  York  boy, 
who  had  seen  the  clubs  of  the  policemen. 

There  was  one  scholar,  poor  Leslie,  who  had 
friends  in  some  foreign  country,  and  who  oc- ; 
casionally  received  letters  bearing  a  foreign - 
post-mark:   what   an  extraordinary  boy  that 
was — what    astonishing    letters,    what   extra- 
ordinary  parents!     I   wondered   if   I   should 
ever  receive  a  letter  from  "  foreign  parts  "  ? 
wondered  if  I  should  ever  write  one :  but 
was   too  much — too  absurd !     As  if  I, 
wearing  a  blue  jacket  with  gilt  buttons,  and 
number   four  boots,   should   ever   visit   those 
countries  spoken  of  in  the  geographies,  and  by 
learned  travelers !     No,  no ;  this  was  too  ex- 
83 


flDorntng 


travagant :  but  I  knew  what  I  would  do,  if  I 
lived  to  come  of  age :  and  I  vowed  that  I  would 
— I  would  go  to  New  York  ! 

Number  seven  was  the  hospital,  and  for- 
bidden ground ;  we  had  all  of  us  a  sort  of  hor- 
ror of  number  seven.  A  boy  died  there  once, 
and  oh,  how  he  moaned ;  and  what  a  time 
there  was  when  the  father  came  ! 

A  scholar  by  the  name  of  Tom  Belton,  who 
wore  linsey  gray,  made  a  dam  across  a  little 
brook  by  the  school,  and  whittled  out  a  saw- 
mill, that  actually  sawed :  he  had  genius.  I 
expected  to  see  him  before  now  at  the  head  of 
American  mechanics ;  but  I  learn  with  pain, 
that  he  is  keeping  a  grocery  store. 

At  the  close  of  all  the  terms  we  had  ex- 
hibitions, to  which  all  the  townspeople  came, 
and  among  them  the  black-eyed  Jane,  and  the 
pretty  Sophia  with  fur  around  her  hat.  My 
great  triumph  was  when  I  had  the  part  of  one 
of  Pizarro's  chieftains,  the  evening  before  I 
left  the  school.  How  I  did  look  ! 

I  had  a  mustache  put  on  with  burned  cork, 
and  whiskers  very  bushy  indeed ;  and  I  had 
the  militia  coat  of  an  ensign  in  the  town  com- 


pany, with  the 


skirts  pinned 
34 


up,  and  a  short 


sword  very  dull,  and  crooked,  which  belonged 
to  an  old  gentleman  who  was  said  to  have  got 
it  from  some  privateer,  who  was  said  to  have 
taken  it  from  some  great  British  admiral,  in 
the  old  wars :  and  the  way  I  carried  that  sword 
upon  the  platform  and  the  way  I  jerked  it  out, 
when  it  came  to  my  turn  to  say — "  Battle ! 
battle ! — then  death  to  the  armed,  and  chains 
for  the  defenseless  !  " — was  tremendous  ! 

The  morning  after,  in  our  dramatic  hats — 
black  felt,  with  turkey  feathers — we  took  our 
place  upon  the  top  of  the  coach  to  leave  the 
school.  The  head  master,  in  green  spectacles, 
came  out  to  shake  hands  with  us — a  very  awful 
shaking  of  hands. 

Poor  gentleman  ! — he  is  in  his  grave  now. 

We  gave  three  loud  hurrahs  "  for  the  old 
school,"  as  the  coach  started ;  and  upon  the 
top  of  the  hill  that  overlooks  the  village,  we 
gave  another  round — and  still  another  for  the 
crabbed  old  fellow,  whose  apples  we  had  so 
often  stolen.  I  wonder  if  old  Bulkeley  is  liv- 
ing yet? 

As  we  got  on  under  the  pine  trees,  I  recalled 
the  image  of  the  black-eyed  Jane,  and  of  the 
other  little  girl  in  the  corner  pew — and  thought 
35 


flDorntng 


how  I  would  come  back  after  the  college  days 
were  over — a  man,  with  a  beaver  hat,  and  a 
cane,  and  with  a  splendid  barouche,  and  how  I 
would  take  the  best  chamber  at  the  inn,  and 
astonish  the  old  schoolmaster  by  giving  him  a 
familiar  tap  on  the  shoulder ;  and  how  I  would 
^  be  the  admiration,  and  the  wonder  of  the  pretty 
girl,  in  the  fur-trimmed  hat !  Alas,  how  our 
thoughts  outrun  our  deeds ! 

For  long — long  years,  I  saw  no  more  of  rny 
old  school ;  and  when  at  length  the  new  view 
came,  great  changes — crashing  like  tornadoes 
— had  swept  over  my  path  !  I  thought  no 
^ore  of  startling  the  villagers,  or  astonishing 
the  black-eyed  girl.  No,  no !  I  was  content  to 
slip  quietly  through  the  little  town,  with  only 
a  tear  or  two,  as  I  recalled  the  dead  ones,  and 
mused  upon  the  emptiness  of  life ! 

THE  SEA 

As  I  look  back,  boyhood  with  its  griefs  and 
cares  vanishes   into   the  proud  stateliness  of 
youth.     The  ambition  and  the  rivalries  of  the 
college  life — its   first  boastful  importance  as 
knowledge  begins  to  dawn  on  the  wakened 
1,  and  the  ripe,  and  enviable  complacency 
36 


of  its  senior  dignity — all  scud  over  my  mem- 
ory, like  this  morning  breeze  along  the  mead- 
ows ;  and  like  that  too,  bear  upon  their  wing, 
a  chillness — as  of  distant  ice-banks. 

Ben  has  grown  almost  to  manhood  ;  Lilly  is 
living  in  a  distant  home ;  and  Isabel  is  just 
blooming  into  that  sweet  age,  where  womanly 
dignity  waits  her  beauty ;  an  age  that  sorely 
puzzles  one  who  has  grown  up  beside  her — 
making  him  slow  of  tongue,  but  very  quick  of 
heart. 

As  for  the  rest — let  us  pass  on. 

The  sea  is  around  me.  The  last  headlands 
have  gone  down  under  the  horizon,  like  the 
city  steeples,  as  you  lose  }rourself  in  the  calm, 
of  the  country,  or  like  the  great  thoughts  of 
genius,  as  you  slip  from  the  pages  of  poets,  • 
into  your  own  quiet  reverie. 

The  waters  skirt  me  right  and  left ;  there  is 
nothing  but  water  before,  and  only  water  be- 
hind. Above  me  are  sailing  clouds,  or  the 
blue  vault,  which  we  call,  with  childish  license 
— heaven.  The  sails,  white  and  full,  like  help- 
ing friends  are  pushing  me  on  :  and  night  and 
day  are  distant  with  the  winds  which  come  and 
go — none  know  whence,  and  none  know  whither. 
37 


flDorning 


A  land  bird  flutters  aloft,  weary  with  long  fly- 
ing ;  and  lost  in  a  world  where  are  no  forests 
but  the  careening  masts,  and  no  foliage  but 
the  drifts  of  spray.  It  cleaves  awhile  to  the 

L  •/ 

smooth  spars,  till  urged  by  some  homeward 
yearning,  it  bears  off  in  the  face  of  the  wind, 
and  sinks,  and  rises  over  the  angry  waters, 
until  its  strength  is  gone,  and  the  blue  waves 
gather  the  poor  flutterer  to  their  cold,  and 
glassy  bosom. 

All  the  morning  I  see  nothing  beyond  me 
but  the  waters,  or  a  tossing  company  of 
dolphins  ;  all  the  noon,  unless  some  white  sail 
— like  a  ghost,  stalks  the  horizon,  there  is  still 
nothing  but  the  rolling  seas ;  all  the  evening, 
after  the  sun  has  grown  big  and  sunk  under 
the  water  line,  and  the  moon  risen,  white  and 
cold,  to  glimmer  across  the  tops  of  the  surging 
ocean — there  is  nothing  but  the  sea,  and  the 
sky,  to  lead  off  thought,  or  to  crush  it  with 
their  greatness. 

Hour  after  hour,  as  I  sit  in  the  moonlight 
upon  the  taffrail,  the  great  waves  gather  far 
back,  and  break — and  gather  nearer,  and  break 
louder — and  gather  again,  and  roll  down  swift 
and  terrible  under  the  creaking  ship,  and  heave 
38 


it  up  lightly  upon  their  swelling  surge,  and 
drop  it  gently  to  their  seething,  and  yeasty 
cradle — like  an  infant  in  the  swaying  arms  of 
a  mother — or  like  a  shadowy  memory,  upon 
the  billows  of  manly  thought. 

Conscience  wakes  in  the  silent  nights  of 
ocean  ;  life  lies  open  like  a  book,  and  spreads 
out  as  level  as  the  sea.  Regrets  and  broken 
resolutions  chase  over  the  soul  like  swift- 
winged  night-birds,  and  all  the  unsteady 
heights  and  the  wastes  of  action,  lift  up  dis- 
tinct, and  clear,  from  the  uneasy,  but  limpid 
depths  of  memory. 

Yet  within  this  floating  world  I  am  upon, 
sympathies  are  narrowed  down  ;  they  cannot 
range,  as  upon  the  land,  over  a  thousand  ob- 
jects. You  are  strangely  attracted  towards 
some  frail  girl,  whose  pallor  has  now  given 
place  to  the  rich  bloom  of  the  sea  life.  You 
listen  eagerly  to  the  chance  snatches  of  a  song 
from  below,  in  the  long  morning  watch.  You 
love  to  see  her  small  feet  tottering  on  the  un- 
steady deck  ;  and  you  love  greatly  to  aid  her 
steps,  and  feel  her  weight  upon  your  arm,  as 
the  ship  lurches  to  a  heavy  sea. 

Hopes  and  fears  knit  together  pleasantly 
39 


upon  the  ocean.  Each  day  seems  to  revive 
them  ;  your  morning  salutation,  is  like  a  "wel- 
come after  absence,  upon  the  shore  ;  and  each 
"  good-night  "  has  the  depth  and  fullness  of  a 
land  "  farewell."  And  beauty  grows  upon  the 
ocean  ;  you  cannot  certainly  sa.y  that  the  face 
of  the  fair  girl-voyager  is  prettier  than  that  of 
Isabel ;  oh,  no !  but  you  are  certain  that  you 
cast  innocent,  and  honest  glances  upon  her  as 
you  steady  her  walk  upon  the  deck,  far  of  tener 
than  at  the  first ;  and  ocean  life,  and  sym- 
pathy, makes  her  kind  ;  she  does  not  resent 
your  rudeness,  one-half  so  stoutly,  as  she 
might  upon  the  shore. 

She  will  even  linger  of  an  evening — pleading 
first  with  the  mother,  and  standing  beside  you 
— her  white  hand  not  very  far  from  yours 
upon  the  rail — look  down  where  the  black 
ship  flings  off  with  each  plunge,  whole  gar- 
lands of  emeralds  ;  or  she  will  look  up  (think- 
ing perhaps  you  are  looking  the  same  way) 
into  the  skies,  in  search  of  some  stars — which 
were  her  neighbors  at  home.  And  bits  of  old 
tales  will  come  up,  as  if  they  rode  upon  the 
ocean  quietude  ;  and  fragments  of  half-forgot- 
ten poems,  tremulously  uttered — either  by  rea- 
40 


son  of  the  rolling  of  the  ship,  or  some  acci- 
dental touch  of  that  white  hand. 

But  ocean  has  its  storms,  when  fear  will 
make  strange,  and  holy  companionship  ;  and 
even  here  my  memory  shifts  swiftly  and  sud- 
denly. 

—It  is  a  dreadful  night.  The  passengers 
are  clustered,  trembling,  below.  Every  plank 
shakes  ;  and  the  oak  ribs  groan,  as  if  they  suf- 
fered with  their  toil.  The  hands  are  all  aloft ; 
the  captain  is  forward  shouting  to  the  mate  in 
the  cross-trees,  and  I  am  clinging  to  one  of  the 
stanchions,  by  the  binnacle.  The  ship  is  pitch- 
ing madly,  and  the  waves  are  toppling  up, 
sometimes  as  high  as  the  yard-arm,  and  then 
dipping  away  with  a  whirl  under  our  keel, 
that  makes  every  timber  in  the  vessel  quiver. 
The  thunder  is  roaring  like  a  thousand  can- 
nons ;  and  at  the  moment,  the  sky  is  cleft  with 
a  stream  of  fire,  that  glares  over  the  tops  of 
the  waves,  and  glistens  on  the  wet  decks  and 
the  spars — lighting  up  all  so  plain,  that  I  can 
see  the  men's  faces  in  the  main-top,  and  catch 
glimpses  of  the  reefers  on  the  yard-arm,  cling- 
ing like  death  ;  then  all  is  horrible  darkness. 

The  spray  spits  angrily  against  the  canvas  ; 
41 


the  waves  crash  against  the  weather-bow  like 
mountains,  the  wind  howls  through  the  rig- 
ging, or,  as  a  gasket  gives  way,  the  sail  belly- 
ing to  leeward,  splits  like  the  crack  of  a  musket. 
I  hear  the  captain  in  the  lulls,  screaming  out 
orders  ;  and  the  mate  in  the  rigging,  screaming 
them  over,  until  the  lightning  comes,  and  the 
thunder,  deadening  their  voices,  as  if  they  were 
chirping  sparrows. 

In  one  of  the  flashes,  I  see  a  hand  upon  the 
yard-arm  lose  his  foothold,  as  the  ship  gives  a 
plunge  ;  but  his  arms  are  clinched  around  the 
spar.  Before  I  can  see  any  more,  the  black- 
ness comes,  and  the  thunder,  with  a  crash  that 
half  deafens  me.  I  think  I  hear  a  low  cry,  as 
the  mutterings  die  away  in  the  distance  ;  and 
the  next  flash  of  lightning,  which  comes  in  an 
instant,  I  see  upon  the  top  of  one  of  the  waves 
alongside,  the  poor  reefer  who  has  fallen. 
The  lightning  glares  upon  his  face. 

But  he  has  caught  at  a  loose  bit  of  running 
rigging,  as  he  fell ;  and  I  see  it  slipping  off  the 
coil  upon  the  deck.  I  shout  madly — man  over- 
board ! — and — catch  the  rope,  when  I  can  see 
nothing  again.  The  sea  is  too  high,  and  the 
man  too  heavy  for  me.  I  shout,  and  shout, 
42 


• 


and  shout,  and  feel  the  perspiration  starting  in 
great  beads  from  my  forehead,  as  the  line  slips 
through  my  fingers. 

Presently  the  captain  feels  his  way  aft,  and 
takes  hold  with  me  ;  and  the  cook  comes,  as 
the  coil  is  nearly  spent,  and  we  pull  together 
upon  him.  It  is  desperate  work  for  the  sailor ; 
for  the  ship  is  drifting  at  a  prodigious  rate ; 
but  he  clings  like  a  dying  man. 

By  and  by  at  a  flash,  we  see  him  on  a  crest, 
two  oars  length  away  from  the  vessel. 

"  Hold  on,  my  man  ! "  shouts  the  captain. 

"  For  God's  sake,  be  quick  ! "  says  the  poor 
fellow  ;  and  he  goes  down  in  a  trough  of  the 
sea.  We  pull  the  harder,  and  the  captain 
keeps  calling  to  him  to  keep  up  courage,  and 
hold  strong.  But  in  the  hush,  we  can  hear 
him  say — "  I  can't  hold  out  much  longer — 
I'm  most  gone !  " 

Presently  we  have  brought  the  man  where 
we  can  lay  hold  of  him,  and  are  only  waiting 
for  a  good  lift  of  the  sea  to  bring  him  up, 
when  the  poor  fellow  groans  out — "  It's  of 
no  use — I  can't — good-bye  ! "  And  a  wave 
tosses  the  end  of  the  rope  clean  upon  the  bul- 

43 


{Doming 


At  the  next  flash,  I  see  him  going  down 
under  the  water. 

I  grope  my  way  below,  sick  and  faint  at 
heart;  and  wedging  myself  into  my  narrow 
berth,  I  try  to  sleep.  But  the  thunder  and  the 
tossing  of  the  ship,  and  the  face  of  the  drown- 
ing man,  as  he  said  good-bye — peering  at  me 
from  every  corner  will  not  let  me  sleep. 

Afterwards,  come  quiet  seas,  over  which  we 
boom  along,  leaving  in  our  track,  at  night,  a 
broad  path  of  phosphorescent  splendor.  The 
sailors  bustle  around  the  decks,  as  if  they  had 
lost  no  comrade ;  and  the  voyagers  losing  the 
pallor  of  fear,  look  out  earnestly  for  the  land. 

At  length,  my  eyes  rest  upon  the  coveted 
fields  of  Britain  ;  and  in  a  day  more,  the  bright 
face,  looking  out  beside  me,  sparkles  at  sight 
of  the  sweet  cottages,  which  lie  along  the 
green  Essex  shores.  Broad-sailed  yachts,  look- 
-o,ing  strangely,  yet  beautifully,  glide  upon  the 
waters  of  the  Thames,  like  swans;  black, 
square-rigged  colliers  from  the  Tyne,  lie 
grouped  in  sooty  cohorts;  and  heav}T,  three- 
decked  Indiamen — of  which  I  had  read  in 
story  books — drift  slowty  down  with  the  tide. 
Dingy  steamers,  with  white  pipes,  and  with 

53 


flDorning 


red  pipes,  whiz  past  us  to  the  sea,  and  now,  my 
eye  rests  on  the  great  palace  of  Greenwich ; 
I  see  the  wooden-legged  pensioners  smoking 
under  the  palace  walls ;  and  above  them  upon 
the  hill — as  Heaven  is  true — that  old,  fabulous 
Greenwich,  the  great  centre  of  schoolboy  lon- 
gitude. 

Presently,  from  under  a  cloud  of  murky 
smoke  heaves  up  the  vast  dome  of  St.  Paul's, 
and  the  tall  column  of  the  fire,  and  the  white 
turrets  of  London  Tower.  Our  ship  glides 
through  the  massive  dock  gates,  and  is  moored, 
amid  the  forest  of  masts  which  bears  golden 
fruit  for  Britons. 

That  night,  I  sleep  far  away  from  "  the  old 
school,"  and  far  away  from  the  valley  of  Hill- 
farm  ;  long,  and  late,  I  toss  upon  my  bed,  with 
sweet  visions  in  my  mind,  of  London  Bridge, 
and  Temple  Bar,  and  Jane  Shore,  and  Falstaff, 
and  Prince  Hal,  and  King  Jamie.  And  when 
at  length  I  fall  asleep  my  dreams  are  very 
pleasant,  but  they  carry  me  across  the  ocean, 
away  from  the  ship — away  from  London — 
away  even  from  the  fair  voyager — to  the  old 
oaks,  and  to  the  brooks,  and — to  thy  side- 
sweet  Isabel ! 

45 


THE  FATHER-LAND 

There  is  a  great  contrast  between  the  easy 
deshabille  of  the  ocean  life,  and  the  prim 
attire,  and  conventional  spirit  of  the  land.  In 
the  first,  there  are  but  few  to  please,  and  these 
few  are  known,  and  they  know  us ;  upon  the 
shore,  there  is  a  world  to  humor,  and  a  world 
of  strangers.  In  a  brilliant  drawing-room 
looking  out  upon  the  sight  of  old  Charing 
Cross,  and  upon  the  one-armed  Nelson,  stand- 
ing aloft  at  his  coil  of  rope,  I  take  leave  of  the 
fair  voyager  of  the  sea.  Her  white  negligee 
has  given  place  to  silks ;  and  the  simple  care* 
less  coiffe  of  the  ocean,  is  replaced  by  the  rich 
dressing  of  a  modiste.  Yet  her  face  has  the 
same  bloom  upon  it ;  and  her  eye  sparkles,  as 
it  seems  to  me,  with  a  higher  pride ;  and  her 
little  hand  has  I  think  a  tremulous  quiver  in 
it  (I  am  sure  my  own  has) — as  I  bid  her  adieu, 
and  take  up  the  trail  of  my  wanderings  into 
the  heart  of  England. 

Abuse  her,  as  we  will — pity  her  starving 
peasantry,  as  we  may — smile  at  her  court 
pageantry,  as  much  as  we  like — old  England, 
is  dear  old  England  still.  Her  cottage  homes, 
her  green  fields,  her  castles,  her  blazing  fire- 
46 


fIDorning 


sides,  her  church  spires  are  as  old  as  songs  ; 
and  by  song  and  story,  we  inherit  them  in  our 
hearts.  This  joyous  boast,  was,  I  remember, 
upon  my  lip,  as  I  first  trod  upon  the  rich 
meadow  of  Runnymede ;  and  recalled  that 
GKEAT  CHARTER  :  wrested  from  the  king, 
which  made  the  first  stepping  stone  towards 
the  bounties  of  our  western  freedom. 

It  is  a  strange  feeling  that  comes  over  the 
Western  Saxon,  as  he  strolls  first  along  the 
green  by-lanes  of  England,  and  scents  the  haw- 
thorn in  its  April  bloom,  and  lingers  at  some 
quaint  stile  to  watch  the  rooks  wheeling  and 
cawing  around  some  lofty  elm-tops,  and  traces 
the  carved  gables  of  some  old  country  mansion 
that  lies  in  their  shadow,  and  hums  some  frag- 
ment of  charming  English  poesy,  that  seems 
made  for  the  scene.  This  is  not  sight-seeing, 
nor  travel ;  it  is  dreaming  sweet  dreams,  that 
are  fed  with  the  old  life  of  Books. 

I  wander  on,  fearing  to  break  the  dream,  by 
a  swift  step ;  and  winding  and  rising  between 
the  blooming  hedgerows,  I  come  presently  to 
the  sight  of  some  sweet  valley  below  me, 
where  a  thatched  hamlet  lies  sleeping  in  the 
April  sun,  as  quietly  as  the  dead  lie  in  history ; 
47 


no  sound  reaches  me  save  the  occasional  clink 
of  the  smith's  hammer,  or  the  hedgeman's  bill- 
hook, or  the  plowman's  "  ho-tup,"  from  the 
hills.  At  evening,  listening  to  the  nightin- 
gale, I  stroll  wearily  into  some  close-nestled 
village,  that  I  had  seen  long  ago  from  a  roll- 
ing height.  It  is  far  away  from  the  great 
lines  of  travel — and  the  children  stop  their  play 
to  have  a  look  at  me,  and  the  rosy-faced  girls 
peep  from  behind  half  opened  doors. 

Standing  apart,  and  with  a  bench  on  either 
side  of  the  entrance,  is  the  inn  of  the  Eagle 
and  the  Falcon — which  guardian  birds,  some 
native  Dick  Tinto  has  pictured  upon  the 
swinging  sign-board  at  the  corner.  The 

hostess  is  half  ready  to  embrace  me,  and  treats 
* 

me  like  a  prince  in  disguise.     She  shows  me 
through  the  tap-room  into  a  little  parlor,  with 
white  curtains,  and  with  neatly  framed  prints 
of  the  old  patriarchs.     Here,  alone  beside  a 
brisk   fire,   kindled    with  furze,  I  watch   the 
white    flame    leaping   playfully   through   the 
black  lumps  of  coal,  and  enjoy  the  best  fare 
,,    of  the  Eagle  and  the  Falcon.     If  too  late,  or 
;  too  early  for  her  garden  stock,  the  hostess  be- 
thinks herself  of  some  small  pot  of  jelly  in  an 
48 


out-of-the-way  cupboard  of  the  house,  and 
setting  it  temptingly  in  her  prettiest  dish,  she 
coyly  slips  it  upon  the  white  cloth,  with  a 
modest  regret  that  it  is  no  better  ;  and  a  little 
evident  satisfaction — that  it  is  so  good. 

I  muse  for  an  hour  before  the  glowing  fire, 
as  quiet  as  the  cat  that  has  come  in,  to  bear 
me  company  ;  and  at  bedtime,  I  find  sheets,  as 
fresh  as  the  air  of  the  mountains. 

At  another  time,  and  many  months  later,  I 
am  walking  under  a  wood  of  Scottish  firs.  It 
is  near  nightfall,  and  the  fir  tops  are  swaying, 
and  sighing  hoarsely,  in  the  cool  wind  of  the 
Northern  Highlands.  There  is  none  of  the 
smiling  landscape  of  England  about  me ;  and 
the  crags  of  Edinburgh  and  Castle  Stirling, 
and  sweet  Perth,  in  its  silver  valley,  are  far  to 
the  southward.  The  larches  of  Athol  and 
Bruar  Water,  and  that  highland  gem — Dun- 

i  O  O 

keld,  are  passed.  I  am  tired  with  a  morning's  ^_ 
tramp  over  Culloden  Moor;  and  from  the  edge 
of  the  wood,  there  stretches  before  me  in  the 
cool  gray  twilight,  broad  fields  of  heather. 
In  the  middle,  there  rise  against  the  night-sky, 
the  turrets  of  a  castle;  it  is  Castle  Cawdor, 
where  King  Duncan  was  murdered  by  Macbeth. 
4.9 


The  sight  of  it  lends  a  spur  to  my  weary 
step ;  and  emerging  from  the  wood,  I  bound 
over  the  springy  heather.  In  an  hour,  I 
clamber  a  broken  wall,  and  come  under  the 
frowning  shadows  of  the  castle.  The  ivy 
clambers  up  here,  and  there,  and  shakes  its 
uncropped  branches,  and  its  dried  berries  over 
the  heavy  portal.  I  cross  the  moat,  and  my 
step  makes  the  chains  of  the  draw-bridge 
rattle.  All  is  kept  in  the  old  state ;  only  in 
lieu  of  the  warder's  horn,  I  pull  at  the  warder's 
bell.  The  echoes  ring,  and  die  in  the  stone 
courts ;  but  there  is  no  one  astir,  nor  is  there 
a  light  at  any  of  the  castle  windows.  I  ring 
again,  and  the  echoes  come,  and  blend  with 
the  rising  night  wind  that  sighs  around  the 
turrets,  as  they  sighed  that  night  of  murder. 
I  fancy — it  must  be  a  fancy — that  I  hear  an 
owl  scream ;  I  am  sure  that  I  hear  the  crickets 
cry. 

I  sit  down  upon  the  green  bank  of  the  moat ; 
a  little  dark  water  lies  in  the  bottom.  The 
walls  rise  from  it  gray,  and  stern  in  the 
deepening  shadows.  I  hum  chance  passages 
of  Macbeth,  listening  for  the  echoes — echoes 
from  the  wall ;  and  echoes  from  that  far  away 
50 


time,  when   I  stole  the  first  reading  of  the 
tragic  story. 

"  Did'st  thon  not  hear  a  noise? 
I  heard  the  owl  scream,  and  the  crickets  cry. 
Did  not  you  speak  ? 

When? 

Now. 

As  I  descended  ? 
Ay. 
Hark ! " 

And  the  sharp  echo  comes  back — "  Hark  ! " 
And  at  dead  of  night,  in  the  thatched  cottage 
under  the  castle  walls,  where  a  dark  faced, 
Gaelic  woman,  in  plaid  turban,  is  my  hostess, 
I  wake,  startled  by  the  wind,  and  ray  trem- 
bling lips  say  involuntarily — "  hark !  " 

Again,  three  months  later,  I  am  in  the 
sweet  county  of  Devon.  Its  valleys  are  like 
emerald ;  its  threads  of  waters  stretched  over 
the  fields,  by  their  provident  husbandry, 
glisten  in  the  broad  glow  of  summer,  like 
skeins  of  silk.  A  bland  old  farmer,  of  the 
true  British  stamp,  is  ray  host.  On  market 
days  he  rides  over  to  the  old  town  of  Totness, 
in  a  trim,  black  farmer's  cart ;  and  he  wears 
glossy-topped  boots,  and  a  broad-brimmed 
51 


ZTbe  fIDorning 


I/ 


white  hat.  I  take  a  vast  deal  of  pleasure  in 
listening  to  his  honest,  straightforward  talk 
about  the  improvements  of  the  day  and  the 
state  of  the  nation.  I  sometimes  get  upon  one 
,  of  his  nags,  and  ride  off  with  him  over  his 
^elds,  or  visit  the  homes  of  the  laborers, 
which  show  their  gray  roofs,  in  every  charm- 

g  nook  of  the  landscape.  At  the  parish 
church,  I  doze  against  the  high  pew  backs,  as 

listen  to  the  see-saw  tones  of  the  drawling 
curate  ;  and  in  my  half  wakeful  moments,  the 
withered  holly  sprigs  (not  removed  since 
Easter)  grow  upon  my  vision,  into  Christmas 
boughs,  and  preach  sermons  to  me  —  of  the 

O         '  J. 

days  of  old. 

Sometimes,  I  wander  far  over  the  hills  into 
a  neighboring  park  ;  and  spend  hours  on  hours 
under   the   sturdy   oaks,    watching   the   sleek 
\  fallow  deer,  gazing  at  me  with  their  soft  liquid 
eyes.     The  squirrels,  too,  play  above  me,  with 
-^\t(heir    daring    leaps    utterty   careless    of    my 
resence,  and  the  pheasants  whir  away  from 
y  very  feet. 

On  one  of  these  random  strolls  —  I  remember 
it  very  well  —  when  I  was  idling  along,  think- 
ing of  the  broad  reach  of  water  that  lay  be- 
62 


flDorning 


tween  me,  and  that  old  forest  home — and 
beating  off  the  daisy  heads  with  my  cane — I 
heard  the  tramp  of  horses  coming  up  one  of 
the  forest  avenues.  The  sound  was  unusual, 
for  the  family,  I  had  been  told,  was  still  in 
town,  and  no  right  of  way  lay  through  the 
park.  There  they  were,  however :  I  was  sure 
it  must  be  the  family,  from  the  careless  way  in 
which  they  came  sauntering  up. 

First,  there  was  a  noble  hound  that  came 
bounding  towards  me — gazed  a  moment,  and 
turned  to  watch  the  approach  of  the  little 
cavalcade.  Next  was  an  elderly  gentleman 
mounted  upon  a  spirited  hunter,  attended  by  a  . 
boy  of  some  dozen  years,  who  managed  his  pony 
with  a  grace,  that  is  a  part  of  the  English  boy's 
education.  Then  followed  two  older  lads,  and 
a  traveling  phaeton  in  which  sat  a  couple  of 
elderly  ladies.  But  what  most  drew  my  at- 
tention was  a  girlish  figure,  that  rode  beyond 
the  carriage,  upon  a  sleek-limbed  gray.  There 
was  something  in  the  easy  grace  of  her  atti- 
tude, and  the  rich  glow  that  lit  up  her  face — 
heightened  as  it  was,  by  the  little  black  riding 
cap,  relieved  with  a  single  flowing  plume — 
that  kept  my  eye.  It  was  strange,  but  I 
53 


cf> 


thought  that  I  had  seen  such  a  figure  before,  and 
such  a  face,  and  such  an  eye ;  and  as  I  made  the 
ordinary  salutation  of  a  stranger,  and  caught 
X  her  smile,  I  could  have  sworn  that  it  was  she — 
my  fair  companion  of  the  ocean.  The  truth 
flashed  upon  me  in  a  moment.  She  was  to 
visit,  she  had  told  me,  a  friend  in  the  south  of 
England  ;  and  this  was  the  friend's  home  ;  and 
one  of  the  ladies  of  the  carriage  was  her  mother; 
and  one  of  the  lads,  the  schoolboy  brother,  who 
had  teased  her  on  the  sea. 

I  recall  now  perfectly,  her  frank  manner,  as 
she  ungloved  her  hand  to  bid  me  welcome.  I 
strolled  beside  them  to  the  steps.  Old  Devon 
Lad  suddenly  renewed  its  beauties  for  me.  I 
had  much  to  tell  her,  of  the  little  outlying 
nooks,  which  my  wayward  feet  had  led  me  to  : 
and  she — as  much  to  ask.  My  stay  with  the 
bland  old  farmer  lengthened ;  and  two  days 
hospitalities  at  the  Park  ran  over  into  three, 
and  four.  There  was  hard  galloping  down 
those  avenues;  and  new  strollsj  not  at  all 
lonely,  under  the  sturdy  oaks.  The  long  sum- 
mer twilight  of  England  used  to  find  a  very 
happy  fellow  lingering  on  the  garden  terrace — - 
looking,  now  at  the  rookery,  where  the  belated 
54 


birds  quarreled  for  a  resting  place,  and  now 
down  the  long  forest  vista,  gray  with  distance, 
and  closed  with  the  white  spire  of  Madbury 
church. 

English  country  life  gains  fast  upon  one — 
very  fast ;  and  it  is  not  so  easy,  as  in  the  drawing- 
room  of  Charing  Cross,  to  say — adieu  !  But  it 
is  said — very  sadly  said;  for  God  only  knows 
how  long  it  is  to  last.  And  as  I  rode  slowly 
down  towards  the  lodge  after  ray  leave-taking, 
I  turned  back  again,  and  again,  and  again.  I 
thought  I  saw  her  standing  still  upon  the  ter- 
race, though  it  was  almost  dark ;  and  I 
thought — it  could  hardly  have  been  an  illu- 
sion— that  I  saw  something  white  waving  from 
her  hand. 

Her  name — as  if  I  could  forget  it — was  Caro- 
line; her  mother  called  her — Carry.  I  won- 
dered how  it  would  seem  for  me  to  call  her — 
Carry  !  I  tried  it — it  sounded  well.  I  tried 
it — over  and  over — until  I  came  too  near  the 
lodge.  There  I  threw  a  half  crown  to  the 
woman  who  opened  the  gate  for  me.  She 
courtesied  low,  and  said — "  God  bless  you,  sir  !  " 

I  liked  her  for  it;  I  would  have  given  a 
guinea  for  it :  and  that  night — whether  it  was 
55 


her    tearful 
then — I 


fIDorning 


the  old  woman's  benediction,  or  the  waving  scarf 
upon  the  terrace,  I  do  not  know — but  there 
was  a  charm  upon  my  thought,  and  my  hope, 
as  if  an  angel  had  been  near  me. 

It  passed  away  though  in  my  dreams ;  for  I 
dreamed  that  I  saw  the  sweet  face  of  Bella  in 
an  English  park,  and  that  she  wore  a  black- 
velvet  riding  cap,  with  a  plume ;  and  I  came 
up  to  her  and  murmured,  very  sweetly,  I 
thought — "  Carry,  dear  Carry ! "  and  she 
started,  looked  sadly  at  me,  and  turned  away. 
I  ran  after  her  to  kiss  her,  as  I  did  when  she 
sat  upon  my  mother's  lap,  on  the  day  when 
she  came  near  drowning:  I  longed  to  tell  her, 
as  I  did  then — I  do  love  you.  But  she  turned 


face   upon 
saw  no  more. 


me,  I   dreamed ;  and 


A  KOMAN  GIRL 

1  remember  the  very  words — "  non  parlo 

Francese,  Signore — I  do  not  speak  French, 
Signer" — said  the  stout  lady — "but  my 
daughter,  perhaps,  will  understand  you." 

And  she  called  out — "  Enrica  ! — Enrico, ! 
venite,  subito  !  c*  e  un  forestiere" 

And  the  daughter  came,  her  light-brow^ 
56 


flDormno 


hair  falling  carelessly  over  her  shoulders,  her 
rich,  hazel  eye  twinkling  and  full  of  life,  the 
color  coming  and  going  upon  her  transparent 
cheek,  and  her  bosom  heaving  with  her  quick 
step.  With  one  hand  she  put  back  the  scat- 
tered locks  that  had  fallen  over  her  forehead, 
while  she  laid  the  other  gently  upon  the  arm 
of  her  mother,  and  asked  in  that  sweet  music 
of  the  south — "  cosa  volete,  mamma  f  " 

It  was  the  prettiest  picture  I  had  seen  in. 
many  a  day ;  and  this,  notwithstanding  I  was 
in  Rome,  and  had  come  that  very  morning 
from  the  Palace  of  Borghese. 

The  stout  lady  \vas  my  hostess,  and  Enrica — 
so  fair,  so  young,  so  unlike  in  her  beauty,  to 
other  Italian  beauties,  was  my  landlady's 
daughter.  The  house  was  one  of  those  tall 
houses — very,  very  old  which  stand  along  the 
eastern  side  of  the  Corso,  looking  out  upon  the 
Piazzo  di  Colonna.  The  staircases  were  very 
tall,  and  dirty,  and  they  were  narrow  and  dark. 
Four  flights  of  stone  steps  led  up  to  the  cor- 
ridor where  they  lived.  A  little  trap  was  in 
the  door ;  and  there  was  a  bell-rope,  at  the  least 
touch  of  which,  I  was  almost  sure  to  hear  trip- 
ping feet  run  along  the  stone  floor  within,  and 
57 


then  to  see  the  trap  thrown  slyly  back,  and 
those  deep  hazel  eyes  looking  out  upon  me ; 
and  then  the  door  would  open,  and  along  the 
corridor,  under  the  daughter's  guidance  (until 
I  had  learned  the  way),  I  passed  to  ray  Roman 
home.  I  was  a  long  time  learning  the  way. 

My  chamber  looked  out  upon  the  Corso,  and 
I  could  catch  from  it  a  glimpse  of  the  top  of 
the  tall  column  of  Antoninus,  and  of  a  frag- 
ment of  the  palace  of  the  governor.  My  par- 
lor, which  was  separated  from  the  apartments 
of  the  family  by  a  narrow  corridor,  looked 
upon  a  small  court,  hung  around  with  bal- 
conies. From  the  upper  one,  a  couple  of 
black-eyed  girls  are  occasionally  looking  out, 
and  they  can  almost  read  the  title  of  my  book, 
when  I  sit  by  the  window.  Below  are  three 
or  four  blooming  ragazze^  who  are  dark-eyed, 
and  have  Roman  luxuriance  of  hair.  The 
youngest  is  a  friend  of  our  Enrica,  and  is  of 
course  frequently  looking  up  with  all  the  inno- 
cence in  the  world,  to  see  if  Enrica  may  be 
looking  out. 

Night  after  night,  a  bright  blaze  glows  upon 
my  hearth,  of  the  alder  faggots  which  they 
bring  from  the  Albanian  hills.  Night  after 
58 


flDorning 


night  too,  the  family  come  in,  to  aid  my  blun- 
dering speech  and  to  enjoy  the  rich  sparkling 
of  my  faggot  fire.  Little  Cesare,  a  dark-faced 
Italian  boy,  takes  up  his  position  with  pencil 
and  slate,  and  dra\vs  by  the  light  of  the  blaze 
genii  and  castles.  The  old  one-eyed  teacher 
of  Enrica,  lays  his  snuff  box  upon  the  table, 
and  his  handkerchief  across  his  lap,  and  with 
his  spectacles  upon  his  nose,  and  his  big  fingers 
on  the  lesson,  runs  through  the  French  tenses 
of  the  verb  arnare.  The  father,  a  sallow-faced, 
keen-eyed  man,  with  true  Italian  visage,  sits 
with  his  arms  upon  the  elbows  of  his  chair, 
and  talks  of  the  pope,  or  of  the  weather.  A 
spruce  count  from  the  Marches  of  Ancona, 
wears  a  heavy  watch  seal,  and  reads  Dante 
with  furore.  The  mother,  with  arms  akimbo, 
looks  proudly  upon  her  daughter,  and  counts 
her,  as  well  she  may,  a  gem  among  the  Roman 
beauties. 

The  table  was  round,  with  the  fire  blazing 
on  one  side  ;  there  was  scarce  room  for  but 
three  upon  the  other.  Signer  il  maestro  was 
one — then  Enrica,  and  next — how  well  I  re- 
member it — came  myself.  For  I  could  some- 
times help  Enrica  to  a  word  of  French  ;  and 
59 


fIDornina 


far  oftener  she  could  help  me  to  a  word  of 
Italian.  Her  face  was  rich,  and  full  of  feeling ; 
I  used  greatly  to  love  to  watch  the  puzzled  ex- 
pressions that  passed  over  her  forehead,  as  the 
sense  of  some  hard  phrase  escaped  her ;  and 
better  still,  to  see  the  happy  smile,  as  she 
caught  at  a  glance,  the  thought  of  some  old 
scholastic  Frenchman,  and  transferred  it  into 
the  liquid  melody  of  her  speech. 

She  had  seen  just  sixteen  summers,  and  only 
that  very  autumn  was  escaped  from  the  thral- 
dom of  a  convent,  upon  the  skirts  of  Rome. 
She  knew  nothing  of  life,  but  the  life  of  feel- 
ing ;  and  all  thoughts  of  happiness,  lay  as  yet 
in  her  childish  hopes.  It  was  pleasant  to  look 
-:-.  upon  her  face;  and  it  was  still  more  pleasant 
to  listen  to  that  sweet  Roman  voice.  "What  a 
rich  flow  of  superlatives,  and  endearing  di- 
minutives, from  those  vermilion  lips  !  Who 
would  not  have  loved  the  study,  and  who 
would  not  have  loved — without  meaning  it — 
the  teacher  ? 

In  those  days,  I  did  not  linger  long  at  the 

tables  of  lame  Pietro  in  the  Yia  Conditti :  but 

would  hurry  back  to  my  little  Roman  parlor 

— the  fire  was  so  pleasant !     And  it  was  so 

60 


flDorning 


pleasant  to  greet  Enrica  with  her  mother, 
even  before  the  one-eyed  maestro  had  come  in  ; 
and  it  was  pleasant  to  unfold  the  book  be- 
tween us,  and  to  lay  my  hand  upon  the  page 
— a  small  page — where  hers  lay  already.  And 
when  she  pointed  wrong,  it  was  pleasant  to 
correct  her — over  and  over  ;  insisting,  that  her 
hand  should  be  here,  and  not  there,  and  lifting 
those  little  fingers  from  one  page,  and  putting 
them  down  upon  the  other.  And  sometimes, 
half  provoked  with  my  fault-finding  she  would 
pat  my  hand  smartly  with  hers ;  but  when  I 
looked  in  her  face  to  know  what  that  could 
mean,  she  would  meet  my  eye  with  such  a  kind 
submission,  and  half  earnest  regret,  as  made 
me  not  only  pardon  the  offense — but  tempt 
me  to  provoke  it  again. 

Through  all  the  days  of  Carnival,  when  I 
rode  pelted  with  confetti,  and  pelting  back,  my 
eyes  used  to  wander  up,  from  a  long  way  off, 
to  that  tall  house  upon  the  Corso,  where  I  was 
sure  to  meet,  again  and  again,  those  forgiving 
eyes  and  that  soft  brown  hair,  all  gathered 
under  the  little  brown  sombrero,  set  off  with 
one  pure  white  plume.  And  her  hand  full 

11 

bon-bons,  she  would  shake  at  me  threateningly  j 
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and  laugh — a  musical  laugh — as  I  bowed  my 
head  to  the  assault,  and  recovering  from  the 
shower  of  missiles,  would  turn  to  throw  my 
stoutest  bouquet  at  her  balcony.  At  night,  I 
would  bear  home  to  the  Roman  parlor,  my 
best  trophy  of  the  day,  as  a  guerdon  for 
Enrica  ;  and  Enrica  would  be  sure  to  render  in 
acknowledgment,  some  carefully  hidden  flow- 
ers, the  prettiest  that  her  beauty  had  won. 

Sometimes  upon  those  Carnival  nights,  she 
arrays  herself  in  the  costume  of  the  Albanian 
water-carriers  ;  and  nothing,  one  would  think, 
could  be  prettier,  than  the  laced  crimson 
jacket,  and  the  strange  headgear  with  its 
trinkets,  and.  the  short  skirts  leaving  to  view 
as  delicate  an  ankle  as  could  be  found  in  Rome. 
Upon  another  night,  she  glides  into  my  little 
parlor,  as  we  sit  by  the  blaze,  in  a  close  velvet 
bodice,  and  with  a  Swiss  hat  caught  up  by  a 
looplet  of  silver,  and  adorned  with  a  full-blown 
rose — nothing  you  think  could  be  prettier  than 
this.  Again,  in  one  of  her  girlish  freaks,  she 
robes  herself  like  a  nun  ;  and  with  the  heavy 
black  serge,  for  dress,  and  the  funereal  veil — 
relieved  only  by  the  plain  white  ruffle  of  her 
cap — you  wish  she  were  always  a  nun.  But 
62 


^J4  - 


flDorning 


the  wish  vanishes,  when  you  see  her  in  a  pure 
white  muslin,  with  a  wreath  of  orange  blos- 
soms about  her  forehead,  and  a  single  white 
rose-bud  in  her  bosom. 

Upon  the  little  balcony  Enrica  keeps  a  pot 
or  two  of  flowers,  which  bloom  all  winter 
long ;  and  each  morning  I  find  upon  my  table 
a  fresh  rose-bud  ;  each  night,  I  bear  back  for 
thank-offering,  the  prettiest  bouquet  that  can 
be  found  in  the  Yia  Conditti.  The  quiet  fire- 
side evenings  come  back  ;  in  which  my  hand 
seeks  its  wonted  place  upon  her  book  ;  and 
my  other,  will  creep  around  upon  the  back  of 
Enrica's  chair,  and  Enrica  will  look  indignant 
— and  then  all  forgiveness. 

One  day  I  received  a  large  packet  of  letters 
— ah,  what  luxury  to  lie  back  in  my  big  arm- 
chair, there  before  the  crackling  faggots,  with 
the  pleasant  rustle  of  that  silken  dress  beside 
me,  and  run  over  a  second,  and  a  third  time, 
those  mute  paper  missives,  which  bore  to  me 
over  so  many  miles  of  water,  the  words  of 
greeting,  and  of  love.  It  would  be  worth 
traveling  to  the  shores  of  the  ^Egean,  to  find 
one's  heart  quickened  into  such  life  as  the 
ocean  letters  will  make.  Enrica  threw  down 
63 


fIDorntng 


her  book,  and  wondered  what  could  be  in 
"them — and  snatched  one  from  my  hand,  and 

looked  with  sad,  but  vain  intensity  over  that 

strange  scrawl.  What  can  it  be?  said  she; 
fand  she  laid  her  finger  upon  the  little  half 

line—"  Dear  Paul." 
-}'   I  told  her  it  was — "  Caro  mio" 
--. '•••   Enrica  laid  it  upon  her  lap  and  looked  in  my 

iace ;  "  It  is  from  your  mother  ?  "  said  she. 

;   "  Kb,"  said  I. 

•    "  From  your  sister  ?  "  said  she. 
"Alas,  no!" 

;     "  11  vostro  fratello,  dunque  f  " 

"  Nemmeno  " — said  I  "  not  from  a  brother 
Cither." 

;    She  handed  me  the  letter,  and  took  up  her 

.book;  and  presently  she  laid  the  book  down 

again  ;  and  looked  at  the  letter,  and  then  at  me 
;i^-and  went  out. 

:  She  did  not  come  in  again  that  evening ;  in 
*the  morning,  there  was  no  rose-bud  on  my 
liable.  And  when  I  came  at  night,  with  a 

Bouquet  from  Pietro's  at  the  corner,  she  asked 

me — "  who  had  written  my  letter  ?  " 
"  A  very  dear  friend,"  said  I. 

\  "A  lady  ?  "  continued  she. 
64 


flDorning 


"  A  lady,"  said  I. 

"  Keep  this  bouquet  for  her,"  said  she,  and 
put  it  in  my  hands. 

"But,  Enrica,  she  has  plenty  of  flowers; 
she  lives  among  them,  and  each  morning  her 
children  gather  them  by  scores  to  make  gar- 
lands of." 

Enrica  put  her  fingers  within  my  hand  to 
take  again  the  bouquet ;  and  for  a  moment  I 
held  both  fingers  and  flowers. 

The  flowers  slipped  out  first. 

I  had  a  friend  at  Rome  in  that  time,  who 
afterwards  died  between  Ancona  and  Corinth  ; 
we  were  sitting  one  day  upon  a  block  of  tufa 
in  the  middle  of  the  Coliseum,  looking  up  at 
the  shadows  which  the  waving  shrubs  upon 
the  southern  wall  cast  upon  the  ruined  arcades 
within,  and  listening  to  the  chirping  sparrows 
that  lived  upon  the  wreck — when  he  said  to  me 
suddenly — "  Paul,  you  love  the  Italian  girl." 

"  She  is  very  beautiful,"  said  I. 

"  I  think  she  is  beginning  to  love  you,"  said 
he  soberly. 

"  She  has  a  very  warm,  heart,  I  believe," 
said  I. 

"  Ay,"  said  he. 

65 


HDorning 


"  But  her  feelings  are  those  of  a  girl,"  con- 
tinued I. 

"  They  are  not,"  said  ray  friend ;  and  he  laid 
his  hand  upon  my  knee,  and  left  off  drawing 
diagrams  with  his  cane ;  "  I  have  seen,  Paul, 
more  than  you  of  this  southern  nature.  The 
Italian  girl  of  fifteen  is  a  woman ;  an  im- 
passioned, sensitive,  tender  creature — yet  still 
a  woman ;  you  are  loving — if  you  love — a  full- 
grown  heart ;  she  is  loving — if  she  loves — as  a 
ripe  heart  should." 

"But  I  do  not  think  that  either  is  wholly 
true, "  said  I. 

"  Try  it, "  said  he,  setting  his  cane  down 
firmly,  and  looking  in  my  face. 

"  How  ?  "  returned  I. 

"  I  have  three  weeks  upon  my  hands,"  con- 
tinued he.  "  Go  with  me  into  the  Appenines  ; 
leave  your  home  in  the  Corso,  and  see  if  you 
can  forget  in  the  air  of  the  mountains,  your 
bright-eyed  Roman  girl." 

I  was  pondering  for  an  answer,  when  he 
went  on  :  "  It  is  better  so  ;  love  as  you  might, 
that  southern  nature  with  all  its  passion,  is 
not  the  material  to  build  domestic  happiness 
upon  ;  nor  is  your  northern  habit — whatever 
66 


fIDorntng 


you  may  think  at  your  time  of  life,  the  one  to 
cherish  always  those  passionate  sympathies 
which  are  bred  by  this  atmosphere,  and  their 
scenes." 

One  moment  my  thought  ran  to  my  little 
parlor,  and  to  that  fairy  figure,  and  to  that 
sweet  angel  face :  and  then,  like  lightning  it 
traversed  oceans,  and  fed  upon  the  old  ideal 
of  home,  and  brought  images  to  my  eye  of 
lost — dead  ones,  who  seemed  to  be  stirring  on 
heavenly  wings,  in  that  soft  Roman  atmos- 
phere, with  greeting,  and  with  beckoning. 

— "  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  I. 

The  father  shrugged  his  shoulders,  when  I 
told  him  I  was  going  to  the  mountains,  and 
wanted  a  guide.  His  wife  said  it  would  be 
cold  upon  the  hills,  for  the  winter  was  not 
ended.  Enrica  said  it  would  be  warm  in  the 
valleys,  for  the  spring  was  coming.  The  old 
man  drummed  with  his  fingers  on  the  table, 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders  again,  but  said 
nothing. 

My  landlady  said  I  could  not  ride.     Cesare 

said  it  would  be  hard  walking.     Enrica  asked 

papa,  if  there  would  be  any  danger  ?     And 

again    the   old   man   shrugged    his  shoulders. 

67 


Again  I  asked    him,    if  he  knew  a  man  who 

would  serve  us  as  guide  among  the  Appenines ; 

jfind  finding  me  determined,  he  shrugged  his 

j^ioulders,  and  said  he  would  find  one  the  next 

"ay. 
As  I  passed  out  at  evening,  on  my  way  to 

.the  Piazzo  near  the  Monte  Citorio,  where 
,and  the  carriages  that  go  out  to  Tivoli, 
nrica  glided  up  to  me,  and  whispered — "J.A, 

mi  displace  tanto — tanto,  Signor  !  " 

THE  APPENINES 
•<^*.  I  shook  her  hand,  and  in  an  hour  afterwards 

'     V»^  * 

'as  passing,  with  my  friend,  by  the  Trajan 
forum,  towards  the  deep  shadow  of  San 
Maggiore,  which  lay  in  our  way  to  the  moun- 
tains. At  sunset,  we  were  wandering  over 
the  ruin  of  Adrian's  villa,  which  lies  upon  the 
first  step  of  the  Appenines.  Behind  us,  the 
vesper  bells  of  Tivoli  were  sounding,  and  their 
echoes  floating  sweetly  under  the  broken 
arches ;  before  us,  stretching  all  the  way  to 
the  horizon,  lay  the  broad  Carnpagna ;  while 
in  the  middle  of  its  great  waves,  turned  violet- 
colored  by  the  hues  of  twilight,  rose  the 
towers  of  the  Eternal  City  ;  and  lord- 
68 


fIDorntng 


ing  it  among  them  all,  like  a  giant,  stood  the 
black  dome  of  St.  Peter's. 

Day  after  day  we  stretched  on  over  the 
mountains,  leaving  the  Campagna  far  behind 
us.  Rocks  and  stones,  huge  and  ragged,  lie 
strewn  over  the  surface  right  and  left;  deep 
yawning  valleys  lie  in  the  shadows  of  moun- 
tains, that  loom  up  thousands  of  feet,  bearing, 
perhaps,  upon  their  tops  old  castellated  towns, 
perched  like  birds'  nests.  But  mountain  and 
valley  are  blasted  and  scarred ;  the  forests 
even,  are  not  continuous,  but  struggle  for  a 
livelihood  ;  as  if  the  brimstone  fire  that  con- 
sumed Nineveh,  had  withered  their  energies. 
Sometimes,  our  eyes  rest  on  a  great  white  scar 
of  the  broken  calcareous  rock,  on  which  the 
moss  cannot  grow,  and  the  lizards  dare  not 
creep.  Then  we  see  a  cliff  beetling  far  aloft, 
with  the  shining  walls  of  some  monastery  of 
holy  men  glistening  at  its  base.  The  wayside 
brooks  do  not  seem  to  be  the  gentle  offspring 
of  bountiful  hills,  but  the  remnants  of  some- 
thing greater,  whose  greatness  has  expired — 
they  are  turbid  rills,  rolling  in  the  bottom  of 
yawning  chasms.  Even  the  shrubs  have  a 
look,  as  if  the  Yolscian  war-horse  had  trampled 
69 


ZTbe 


them  down  to  death  ;  and  the  primroses  and 
the  violets  by  the  mountain  path,  alone  look 
modestly  beautiful  amid  the  ruin. 

Sometimes,  we  loiter  in  a  valley,  above 
which  the  goats  are  browsing  on  the  cliffs, 
and  listen  to  the  sweet  pastoral  pipes  of  the 
Appenines.  "We  see  the  shepherds  in  their 
rough  skin  coats,  high  over  our  heads.  Their 
herds  are  feeding,  as  it  seems,  on  ledges  of  a 
hand's  breadth.  The  sweet  sound  floats  and 
lingers  in  the  soft  atmosphere,  without  a 
breath  of  wind  to  bear  it  away,  or  a  noise 
to  disturb  its  melody.  The  shadows  slant 
more  and  more  as  we  linger ;  and  the  kids 
begin  to  group  together.  And  as  we  wander 
on,  through  the  stunted  vineyard  in  the 
bottom  of  the  valley,  the  sweet  sound  flows 
after  us,  like  a  river  of  song — nor  leaves  us, 
till  the  kids  have  vanished  in  the  distance,  and 
the  cliffs  themselves,  become  one  dark  wall  of 
shadow. 

At  night,  in  some  little  meager  mountain 
town,  we  stroll  about  in  the  narrow  pass- ways, 
or  wander  under  the  heavy  arches  of  the 
mountain  churches.  Shuffling  old  women 
grope  in  and  out ;  dim  lamps  glimmer  faintly 
70 


flDornincj 


air 


again. 


at  the  side  altars,  shedding  horrid  light  upon 
painted  images  of  the  dying  Christ.  Or  per- 
haps, to  make  the  old  pile  more  solemn,  there 
stands  some  bier  in  the  middle,  with  a  figure 
or  two  kneeling  at  the  foot,  and  ragged  boys 
move  stealthily  under  the  shadows  of  the 
columns.  Presently  comes  a  young  priest,  in 
black  robes,  and  lights  a  taper  at  the  foot,  and 
another  at  the  head — for  there  is  a  dead  man 
on  the  bier ;  and  the  parched,  thin  features 
look  awfully  under  the  yellow  light  of  the 
tapers,  in  the  gloom  of  the  great  building.  It 
is  very,  very  damp  in  the  church,  and  the 
body  of  the  dead  man  seems  to  make  the 


heavy,  so  we   go   out  into   the   starlight 


In  the  morning,  the  western  slopes  wear 
broad  shadows,  and  the  frosts  crumple,  on  the 
herbage,  to  our  tread  :  across  the  valley,  it  is 
like  summer ;  and  the  birds — for  there  are 
songsters  in  the  Appenines — make  summer 
music.  Their  notes  blend  softly  with  the 
faint  sounds  of  some  far  off  convent  bell,  toll- 
ing for  morning  mass,  and  strike  the  frosted 
and  shaded  mountainside,  with  a  sweet  echo. 
As  we  toil  on,  and  the  shaded  hills  begin  to 
71 


flfcorning 


glow  in  the  sunshine,  we  pass  a  train  of  mules, 
loaded  with  wine.  We  have  seen  them  an 
hour  before — little  black  dots  twining  along 
the  white  streak  of  foot-way  upon  the  moun- 
tain above  us.  We  lost  them  as  we  began  to 
ascend,  until  a  wild  snatch  of  an  Appenine 
song  turned  our  eyes  up,  and  there,  straggling 
through  the  brush,  they  appeared  again  ;  a 
foot  slip  would  have  brought  the  mules  and 
wine  casks  rolling  upon  us.  We  keep  still, 
holding  by  the  brushwood,  to  let  them  pass. 
An  hour  more,  and  we  see  them  toiling  slowly 
— mule  and  muleteer — big  dots  and  little  dots 
— far  down  where  we  have  been  before.  The 
sun  is  hot  and  smoking  on  them  in  the  bare 
valleys ;  the  sun  is  hot  and  smoking  on  the 
hillside,  where  we  are  toiling  over  the  broken 
stones.  I  thought  of  little  Enrica,  when  she 
said :  "  the  spring  was  coming !  " 

Time  and  a^ain,  we  sit  down  together — my 
friend  and  I — upon  some  fragment  of  rock, 
under  the  broad-armed  chestnuts,  that  fringe 
the  lower  skirts  of  the  mountains,  and  talk 
through  the  hottest  of  the  noon,  of  the 
warriors  of  Sylla,  and  of  the  Sabine  woman — 
but  oftener — of  the  pretty  peasantry,  and  of 
72 


the  sweet-faced  Roman  girl.  He  too  tells  me 
of  bis  life  and  loves,  and  of  the  hopes  that  lie 
misty  and  grand  before  him :  little  did  we 
think  that  in  so  few  years,  his  hopes  would  be 
gone,  and  his  body  lying  low  in  the  Adriatic, 
or  tossed  with  the  drift  upon  the  Dalmatian 
shores !  Little  did  I  think  that  here  under  the 
ancestral  wood — still  a  wishful  and  blundering 
mortal,  I  should  be  gathering  up  the  shreds, 
that  memory  can  catch  of  our  Appenine  wan- 
dering, and  be  weaving  them  into  my  bachelor 
dreams. 

Away  again  upon  the  quick  wing  of  thought, 
I  follow  our  steps,  as  after  weeks  of  wander- 
ing, we  gained  once  more  a  height  that  over- 
looked the  Campagna — and  saw  the  sun  setting 
on  its  edge,  throwing  into  relief  the  dome  of 
St.  Peter's,  and  blazing  in  a  red  stripe  upon  the 
waters  of  the  Tiber. 

Below  us  was  Palestrina — the  Praeneste  of  the 
poets  and  philosophers ;  the  dwelling-place  of 
— I  know  not  how  many — emperors.  We  went 
straggling  through  the  dirty  streets,  searching 
for  some  tidy-looking  osteria.  At  length,  we 
found  an  old  ladj'-,  who  could  give  us  a  bed,  but 
no  dinner.  My  friend  dropped  in  a  chair  di.- 
73 


heartened.  A  snub-looking  priest  came  out 
to  condole  with  us. 

And  could  Palestrina — the  frigidum  Prce- 
neste  of  Horace,  which  had  entertained  over 
and  over,  the  noblest  of  the  Colonna,  and 
the  most  noble  Adrian — could  Palestrina  not 
furnish  a  dinner  to  a  tired  traveler  ? 

"Si,  Signore"  said  the  snub-looking  priest. 

"  /Si,  Signorino"  said  the  neat  old  lady  ;  and 
away  we  went  upon  a  new  search.  And  we 
found  bright  and  happy  faces ;  especially  the 
little  girl  of  twelve  years,  who  came  close  by 
me  as  I  ate,  and  afterwards  strung  a  garland 
of  marigolds,  and  put  it  on  my  head.  Then 
there  was  a  bright-eyed  boy  of  fourteen,  who 
wrote  his  name,  and  those  of  the  whole  family, 
upon  a  fly-leaf  of  my  book ;  and  a  pretty, 
saucy-looking  girl  of  sixteen,  who  peeped  a 
long  time  from  behind  the  kitchen  door,  but 
before  the  evening  was  gone,  she  was  in  the 
chair  beside  me,  and  had  written  her  name — 
Carlotta — upon  the  first  leaf  of  my  journal. 

When  I  woke,  the  sun  was  up.     From  my 

bed  I  could  see  over  the  town,  the  thin,  lazy 

mists  lying  on  the  old  camp-ground  of  Pyr- 

vhus ;  beyond  it,  were  the  mountains,  which 

74. 


hide  Frascati,  and  Monte-Cavi.     There  was  old 
Colonna  too,  that  — 

Like  an  eagle's  nest,  hangs  on  the  crest 
Of  purple  Appeuine. 

As  the  mist  lifted,  and  the  sun  brightened 
the  plain,  I  could  see  the  road,  along  which 
Sylla  carae  fuming  and  maddened  after  the 
Mithridaten  war.  I  could  see,  as  I  half 
dreamed  and  half  slept,  the  frightened  peas- 
antry whooping  to  their  long-horned  cattle,  as 
they  drove  them  on  tumultuously  up  through 
the  gateways  of  the  town ;  and  women  with 
babies  in  their  arms,  and  children  scowling 
with  fear  and  hate — all  trooping  fast  and 
madly,  to  escape  the  hand  of  the  Avenger; 
alas !  ineffectually,  for  Sylla  murdered  them, 
and  pulled  down  the  walls  of  their  town — the 

x 

proud  Palestrina. 

I  had  a  queer  fancy  of  seeing  the  nobles  of 
Home,  led  on  by  Stefano  Colonna,  grouping 
along  the  plain,  their  corselets  flashing  out  of 
the  mists — their  pennants  dashing  above  it — 
coming  up  fast,  and  still  as  the  wind,  to  make 
the  Mural  Prasneste,  their  stronghold  against 
the  Last  of  the  Tribunes.  And  strangely 
75 


mingling  fiction  with  fact,  I  saw  the  brother 
of  Walter  de  Montreal,  with  his  noisy  and 
bristling  army,  crowd  over  the  Campagna, 
and  put  up  his  white  tents,  and  hang  out  his 
showy  banners,  on  the  grassy  knolls  that  lay 
nearest  my  eye. 

But   the  knolls  were   all  quiet ;   there 

was  not  so  much  as  a  strolling  contadino  on 
them,  to  whistle  a  mimic  fife-note.  A  little 
boy  from  the  inn  went  with  me  upon  the  hill, 
to  look  out  upon  the  town  and  the  wide  sea  of 
land  below  ;  and  whether  it  was  the  soft,  warm 
April  sun,  or  the  gray  ruins  below  me,  or 
whether  the  wonderful  silence  of  the  scene,  or 
some  wild  gush  of  memory,  I  do  not  know,  but 
something  made  me  sad. 

"Perche  cosi  penseroso ! — why  so  sad?" 
said  the  quick-eyed  boy.  "  The  air  is  beauti- 
ful, the  scene  is  beautiful ;  Signore  is  young, 
why  is  he  sad  ?  " 

"  And  is  Giovanni  never  sad  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Quasi  mai"  said  the  boy,  "  and  if  I  could 
travel  as  Signore,  and  see  other  countries,  I 
would  be  always  gay." 

"  May  you  be  always  that !  "  said  I. 

The  good  wish  touched  him ;  he  took  me  by 


the  arms,  and  said — "  Go  home  with  me,  Sig- 
nore ;  you  were  happy  at  the  inn  last  night ; 
go  back,  and  we  will  make  you  gay  again  !  " 

If  we  could  be  always  boys ! 

I  thanked  him  in  a  way  that  saddened  him. 
We  passed  out  shortly  after  from  the  city 
gates,  and  strode  on  over  the  rolling  plain. 
Once  or  twice  we  turned  back  to  look  at  the 
rocky  heights  beneath  which  lay  the  ruined 
town  of  Palestrina — a  city  that  defied  Rome 
— that  had  a  king  before  a  plowshare  had 
touched  the  Capitoline,  or  the  Janiculan  hill ! 
The  ivy  was  covering  up  richly  the  Etruscan 
foundations,  and  there  was  a  quiet  over  the 
whole  place.  The  smoke  was  rising  straight 
into  the  sky  from  the  chimney  tops  ;  a  peasant 
or  two,  were  going  along  the  road  with  don- 
keys ;  beside  this,  the  city  was,  to  all  appear- 
ance, a  dead  city.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that 
an  old  monk,  whom  I  could  see  with  my  glass, 
near  the  little  chapel  above  the  town,  might 
be  going  to  say  mass  for  the  soul  of  the  dead 
city. 

And  afterwards,  when  we  came  near  to 
Rome,  and  passed  under  the  temple  tomb  of 
Metella — my  friend  said — "And  will  you  go 
77 


ZTbe  flfeorning 


back  now  to  your  home?  or  will  you  set  off 
with  me  to-morrow  for  Ancona  ?  " 

"  At  least,  I  must  say  adieu,"  returned  I. 

"  God  speed  you ! "  said  he,  and  we  parted 
upon  the  Piazza  di  Venezia — he  for  his  last 
mass  at  St.  Peter's,  and  I  for  the  tall  house 
upon  the  Corso. 

ENRICA 

I  hear  her  glancing  feet,  the  moment  I 
have  tinkled  the  bell :  and  there  she  is,  with 
her  brown  hair  gathered  into  braids,  and  her 
eyes  full  of  joy,  and  greeting.  And  as  I  walk 
with  the  mother  to  the  window  to  look  at 
some  pageant  that  is  passing — she  steals  up 
behind,  and  passes  her  arm  around  me,  with  a 
quick  electric  motion,  and  a  general  pressure  of 
welcome — that  tells  more  than  a  thousand 
words. 

It  is  a  pageant  of  death  that  is  passing  be- 
low. Far  down  the  street,  we  see  heads  thrust 
out  of  the  windows,  and  standing  in  bold  re- 
lief against  the  red  torch-light  of  the  moving 
train.  Below,  dim  figures  are  gathering  on 
the  narrow  sideways  to  look  at  the  solemn 
spectacle.  A  hoarse  chant  rises  louder,  and 
78 


Aborning 


louder ;  and  half  dies  in  the  night  air,  and 
breaks  out  again  with  new,  and  deep  bitter- 
ness. 

Now,  the  first  torch-light  under  us  shines 
plainly  on  faces  in  the  windows,  and  on  the 
kneeling  women  in  the  street.  First,  come  old 
retainers  of  the  dead  one,  bearing  long  blazing 
flambeaux.  Then  comes  a  company  of  priests, 
two  by  two,  bare-headed,  and  every  second 
one  with  a  lighted  torch,  and  all  are  chanting. 

Next,  is  a  brotherhood  of  friars  in  brown 
cloaks,  with  sandaled  feet ;  and  the  red-light 
streams  full  upon  their  grizzled  heads.  They 
add  their  heavy  guttural  voices  to  the  chant, 
and  pass  slowly  on. 

Then  comes  a  company  of  priests  in  white 
muslin  capes,  and  black  robes,  and  black  caps — 
bearing  books  in  their  hands,  wide  open,  and 
lit  up  plainly  by  the  torches  of  churchly  serv- 
itors, who  march  beside  them ;  and  from  the 
books  the  priests  chant  loud  and  solemnly. 
Now  the  music  is  loudest ;  and  the  friars  take 
up  the  dismal  notes  from  the  white-capped 
priests,  and  the  priests  before  catch  them  from 
the  brown-robed  friars,  and  mournfully  the 
sound  rises  up  between  the  tall  buildings,  into 
79 


the  blue  night-sky  that  lies  between  Heaven 
and  Rome. 

— "  Vede — Vede.'"  says  Cesare;  and  in  a 
blaze  of  the  red-torch  fire,  conies  the  bier, 
borne  on  the  necks  of  stout  friars  ;  and  on  the 
bier,  is  the  body  of  a  dead  man,  habited  like  a 
priest.  Heavy  plumes  of  black  wave  at  each 
corner. 

— "  Hist,"  says  my  landlady. 

The  body  is  just  under  us.  Enrica  crosses 
herself;  her  smile  is  for  the  moment  gone. 
Cesare's  boy-face  is  grown  suddenly  earnest. 
"We  could  see  the  pale  youthful  features  of  the 
dead  man.  The  glaring  flambeaux,  sent  their 
flaunting  streams  of  unearthly  light  over  the 
wan  visage  of  the  sleeper.  A  thousand  eyes 
were  looking  on  him  ;  but  his  face  careless  of 
them  all,  was  turned  up,  straight  towards  the 
•stars. 

Still  the  chant  rises ;  and  companies  of 
priests  follow  the  bier,  like  those  who  had  gone 
before.  Friars,  in  brown  cloaks,  and  prelates 
and  Carmelites  come  after — all  with  torches. 
Two  by  two — their  voices  growing  hoarse — 
they  tramp,  and  chant. 

f  For  a  while  the  voices  cease,  and  you  can 
80 


flDornins 


hear  the  rustling  of  their  robes,  and  their  foot- 
falls, as  if  your  ear  was  to  the  earth.  Then 
the  chant  rises  again,  as  they  glide  on  in  a 
wavy  shining  line,  and  rolls  back  over  the 
death-train,  like  the  howling  of  a  wind  in 
winter. 

As  they  pass,  the  faces  vanish  from  the  win- 
dows. The  kneeling  women  upon  the  pave- 
ment, rise  up,  mindful  of  the  paroxysm  of 
Life  once  more.  The  groups  in  the  doorways 
scatter.  But  their  low  voices  do  not  drown 
the  voices  of  the  host  of  mourners,  and  their 
ghost-like  music. 

I  look  long  upon  the  blazing  bier,  trailing 
under  the  deep  shadows  of  the  Roman  palaces, 
and  at  the  stream  of  torches,  winding  like  a 
glittering,  scaled  serpent.  It  is  a  priest — say 
I  to  my  landlady  as  she  closes  the  window. 

"  No,  signor — a  young  man  never  married, 
and  so  by  virtue  of  his  condition,  they  put  on 
him  the  priest-robes." 

"  So  I,"  says  the  pretty  Enrica — "  if  I  should 
die,  would  be  robed  in  white,  as  you  saw  me 
on  a  carnival  night,  and  be  followed  by  nuns 
for  sisters." 

"A  long   way  off  may  it   be,  Enrica." 
81  * 


She  took  my  hand  in.  hers,  and  pressed  it. 
An  Italian  girl  does  not  fear  to  talk  of  death ; 
and  we  were  talking  of  it  still,  as  we  walked 
back  to  my  little  parlor — my  hand  all  the  time 
in  hers — and  sat  down  by  the  blaze  of  my  fire. 

It  was  holy  week — never  had  Enrica  looked 
more  sweetly  than  in  that  black  dress — un- 
der that  long,  dark  veil  of  the  days  of  Lent. 
Upon  the  broad  pavement  of  St.  Peter's — 
where  the  people  flocking  by  thousands,  made 
only  side  groups  about  the  altars  of  the  vast 
temple — I  have  watched  her  kneeling,  beside 
her  mother — her  eyes  bent  down,  her  lips 
moving  earnestly,  and  her  whole  figure  trem- 
ulous with  deep  emotion.  Wandering  around 
among  the  halberdiers  of  the  pope,  and  the 
court  coats  of  Austria,  and  the  bare-footed 
pilgrims  with  sandal,  shell  and  staff,  I  would 
sidle  back  again  to  look  upon  that  kneeling 
figure ;  and  leaning  against  the  huge  columns 
of  the  church,  would  dream — even  as  I  am 
dreaming  now. 

At  nightfall,  I  urged  my  way  into  the  Sis- 
tine  Chapel :  Eurica  is  beside  me — looking 
with  me  upon  the  gaunt  figures  of  the  Judg- 
ment of  Angelo.  They  are  chanting  the  Miser- 
82 


flDormng 


ere.  The  twelve  candlesticks  by  the  altar  are 
put  out  one  by  one,  as  the  service  continues. 
The  sun  has  gone  down,  and  only  the  red  glow  -^ 
of  twilight  steals  through  the  dusky  windows. 
There  is  a  pause,  and  a  brief  reading  from  a 
red-cloaked  cardinal,  and  all  kneel  down.  She 
kneels  beside  me:  and  the  sweet,  mournful 
flow  of  the  Miserere  begins  again — growing  in 
force,  and  depth,  till  the  whole  chapel  rings, 
and  the  balcony  of  the  choir  trembles :  then, 
it  subsides  again  into  the  low,  soft  wail  of  a 
single  voice — so  prolonged — so  tremulous,  and 
so  real,  that  the  heart  aches,  and  the  tears 
start — for  Christ  is  dead  ! 

—Lingering  yet,  the  wail  dies  not  wholly, 
but  just  as  it  seemed  expiring,  it  is  caught  up 
by  another  and  stronger  voice  that  carries  it 
on,  plaintive  as  ever — nor  does  it  stop  with  this 
— for  just  as  you  looked  for  silence,  three 
voices  more  begin  the  lament — sweet,  touch- 
ing, mournful  voices — and  bear  it  up  to  a  full 
cry,  when  the  whole  choir  catch  its  burden, 
and  make  the  lament  change  into  the  wailing 
of  a  multitude — wild,  shrill,  hoarse — with 
swift  chants  intervening,  as  if  agony  had  gives^,.  ^  I 
force  to  anguish.  Then,  sweetly,  slowly,  voice 
83 


Aborning 


ev.   • 

/        -<• — »    x  *  ~\        /  j>  )  '    •-.     '     ( 

tSLS^ 

f 

-— 


by  voice,  note  by  note,  the  wailings  sink  into 
the  low,  tender  moan  of  a  single  singer — fal- 
tering, tremulous,  as  if  tears  checked  the  ut- 
terance ;  and  swelling  out,  as  if  despair  sus- 
tained it. 

It  was  dark  in  the  chapel  when  we  went 
out ;  voices  were  low.  Enrica  said  nothing — 
I  could  say  nothing. 

I  was  to  leave  Rome  after  Easter  ;  I  did  not 
love  to  speak  of  it — nor  to  think  of  it.  Rome 
— that  old  city,  with  all  its  misery,  and  its 
fallen  state,  and  its  broken  palaces  of  the 
empire — grows  upon  one's  heart.  The  fring- 
ing shrubs  of  the  Coliseum,  flaunting  their 
blossoms  at  the  tall  beggar-men  in  cloaks,  who 
grub  below — the  sun  glimmering  over  the 
mossy  pile  of  the  House  of  Nero — the  sweet 
sunsets  from  the  Pincian,  that  make  the  broad 
pine-tops  of  the  Janiculan,  stand  sharp  and 
dark  against  a  sky  of  gold,  cannot  easily  be 
left  behind.  And  Enrica,  with  her  silver- 
brown  hair,  and  the  silken  fillet  that  bound  it 
— and  her  deep  hazel  eyes — and  her  white, 
delicate  fingers — and  the  blue  veins  chasing 
over  her  fair  temples — ah,  Easter  is  too  near ! 

But  it  comes ;  and  passes  with  the  glory  of 
84 


(Doming 


St.  Peter's — lighted  from  top  to  bottom.  With 
Enrica — I  saw  it  from  the  Eipetta,  as  it  loomed 
up  in  the  distance,  like  a  city  on  fire. 

The  next  day,  I  bring  home  my  last  bunch 
of  flowers,  and  with  it  a  little  richly-chased 
Roman  ring.  No  fire  blazes  on  the  hearth — 
but  they  are  all  there.  "Warm  days  have  come, 
and  the  summer  air,  even  now,  hangs  heavy 
with  fever,  in  the  hollows  of  the  plain. 

I  heard  them  stirring  early  on  the  morning 
on  which  I  was  to  go  away.  I  do  not  think  I 
slept  very  well  myself — nor  very  late.  Never 
did  Enrica  look  more  beautiful — never.  All 
her  carnival  robes,  and  the  sad  drapery  of  the 
FRIDAY  OF  CRUCIFIXION  could  not  so  adorn 
her  beauty  as  that  neat  morning  dress,  and 
that  simple  rosebud  she  wore  upon  her  bosom. 
She  gave  it  to  me — the  last — with  a  trembling 
hand.  I  did  not,  for  I  could  not,  thank  her. 
She  knew  it ;  and  her  eyes  were  full. 

The  old  man  kissed  my  cheek — it  was  the 
Roman  custom,  but  the  custom  did  not  extend 
to  the  Roman  girls  ;  at  least  not  often.  As  I 
passed  down  the  Corso,  I  looked  back  at  the 
balcony,  where  she  stood  in  the  time  of  Garni- 
Tal,  in  the  brown  sombrero  with  the  white 
85 


{Doming 


plume.  I  knew  she  would  be  there  now  ;  and 
there  she  was.  My  eyes  dwelt  upon  the  vision, 
very  loth  to  leave  it ;  and  after  my  eyes  had 
lost  it,  my  heart  clung  to  it — there,  where  my 
memory  clings  now. 

-;JN     At  noon,  the  carriage  stopped  upon  the  hills, 
;.'  \owards  Soracte,  that  overlooked  Rome.    There 
a  stunted  pine  tree  grew  a  little  way  from 
the  road  and  I  sat  down  under  it — for  I  wished 
no  dinner — and  I  looked   back  with  strange 
tumult  of  feeling,  upon  the  sleeping  city  with 
the  gray,  billowy  sea  of  the  Campagna,  lying 
around  it. 

I  seemed  to  see  Enrica — the  Roman  girl,  in 
that  morning  dress,  with  her  brown  hair  in  its 
silken  fillet ;  but  the  rose-bud  that  was  in  her 
bosom,  was  now  in  mine.  Her  silvery  voice 
too,  seemed  to  float  past  me,  bearing  snatches 
of  Roman  songs  ;  but  the  songs  were  sad  and 
.broken. 

— After  all,  this  is  sad  vanity  !  thought  I : 
yet  if  I  had  espied  then  some  returning 
carriage  going  down  towards  Rome,  I  will  not 
>ay — but   that   I   should   have   hailed  it,  and 
taken  a  place — and  gone  back,  and  to  this  day 
'  perhaps — have  lived  at  Rome. 
86 


But  the  vetturino  called  me ;  the  coach  was 
ready — I  gave  one  more  look  towards  the  dome 
that  guarded  the  sleeping  city :  and  then  we 
galloped  down  the  mountain,  on  the  road  that 
lay  towards  Perugia,  and  Lake  Thrasimene. 

Sweet  Enrica !  art  thou  living  yet  ? 

Or  hast  thou  passed  away  to  that  Silent  Land, 
where  the  good  sleep,  and  the  beautiful  ? 


•  . 


The  visions  of  the  past  fade.  The  morning 
breeze  has  died  upon  the  meadow  ;  the  Bob-o'- 
Lincoln  sits  swaying  on  the  willow  tufts — 
singing  no  longer.  The  trees  lean  to  the 
brook  ;  but  the  shadows  fall  straight  and  dense 
upon  the  silver  stream. 

NOON  has  broken  into  the  middle  sky  ;  and 
MORNING  is  gone. 


A     000121420 


